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BROWNING 


VOLUMES  IN  THIS  SERIES 

PUBLISHED  AND  IN  PREPARATION 

EDITED  BY  WILL  D.  HOWE 


Arnold, 

Stuart  P.  Sherman 

Browning, 

William  Lyon  Phelps; 

Burns, 

W.  A.  Neilson 

Carlyle, 

Bliss  Perry 

Dante, 

Alfred  M.  Brooke 

Defoe, 

William  P.  Trent: 

Dickens, 

Richard  Burton 

Emerson, 

.     Samuel  M.  Crothers 

Hawthorne, 

George  E.  Woodberry 

Lamb, 

Will  D.  Howe 

Lowell, 

John  H.  Finley 

Stevenson, 

Richard  A.  Rice 

Tennyson, 

Raymond  M.  Alden 

Whitman, 

Brand  Whitlock 

Wordsworth, 

C.  T.  Winchester 

Etc.,  Etc. 


Robert  Browning 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

HOW  TO  KNOW  HIM 


By 
WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  M.  A.,  Ph.  D. 

Lampson  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale 


WITH  PORTRAIT 


EE7 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1915 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


mess  or 

BRAUNWORTH   tt    CO, 

BOOKBINDER8    AND     PRINTBH8 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


TO 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

WITH  SINCERE  AFFECTION  AND 

RESPECT 


PREFACE 

In  this  volume  I  have  attempted  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  Browning's  life  and  an  estimation  of  his 
character:  to  set  forth,  with  sufficient  illustration 
from  his  poems,  his  theory  of  poetry,  his  aim  and 
method :  to  make  clear  some  of  the  leading  ideas  in 
his  work :  to  show  his  fondness  for  paradox :  to  ex- 
hibit the  nature  and  basis  of  his  optimism.  I  have 
given  in  complete  form  over  fifty  of  his  poems,  each 
one  preceded  by  my  interpretation  of  its  meaning 
and  significance.  W.  L.  P. 

Seven  Gables,  Lake  Huron 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   The  Man 1 

II   Browning's  Theory  of  Poetry    ...  34 

III  Lyrics 71 

IV  Dramatic  Lyrics 96 

V   Dramatic  Monologues 169 

VI  Poems  of  Paradox 245 

VII    Browning's  Optimism 294 

Index 377 


LIST  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

AbtVogler 353 

>Andrea  del  Sarto 208- 

Apparent  Failure 361 

Bad  Dreams 168 

Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb,  The 195" 

Caliban  Upon  Setebos 331 

■-  Cavalier  Tunes Ill 

"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came"     .       .       .  237 

Confessions 164 

Count  Gismond .       .       .  179 

Cristina 125 

Epilogue  to  Asolando        . 373 

Epilogue  to  Fifine  at  the  Fair 89 

Epistle   (An)   Containing  the  Strange  Medical  Ex- 
perience of  Karshish 222 

;  Evelyn  Hope 130 

Eyes  Calm  Beside  Thee 75 

Face,  A 87 

Glove,  The 250 

-  Grammarian's  Funeral,  A 262 

Guardian-Angel,  The 324 

-  Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 85 

.  Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 85 

How  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary 54 

-  "How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to 

Aix" 191 

James  Lee's  Wife  (two  stanzas  from)         ....  86 

Johannes  Agricola  in  Meditation 108 

Laboratory,  The 201 

Last  Ride  Together,  The 150 

Lost  Leader,  The 114 

Lost  Mistress,  The 149 

■  Love  Among  the  Ruins 158 

-  Meeting  at  Night 140 

My  Last  Duchess       .       .       .       .- 175 


LIST  OF  POEMS— Continued 

PAGE 

My  Star .      .  167 

Never  the  Time  and  the  Place 94 

One  Way  of  Love 149 

One  Word  More 15 

Over  the  Sea  Our  Galleys  Went        .       .       .      ~      .  128 

*n-Parting  at  Morning /     .  140 

v  ~~  PnnPHVTjjA^  Lover 104 

ProloguetoAsolando 370 

Prologue  to  Jocoseria 94 

Prologue  to  La  Saisiaz 93 

Prologue  to  Pacchiarotto 92 

Prologue  to  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic       ....  91 

—  Prospice 359 

—  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 344 

Rephan 365 

Respectability 162 

Saul 303 

Sibrandus  Schafnaburgensis 259 

—n  Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 187 

Song  from  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon        ....  83 

Songs  from  Paracelsus .76 

i  Songs  from  Pippa  Passes 81 

Statue  (Tfp)  aat"  the  Bust 277 

summum  bonum 168 

"Transcendentalism" 52 

Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City 269 

Which?   .      .  ' 293 


BROWNING 


BROWNING 


THE   MAN      ..'      '•  V  - 

IF  we  enter  this  world  from  some  other  state  of 
existence,  it  seems  certain  that  in  the  obscure 
pre-natal  country,  the  power  of  free  choice — so 
stormily  debated  by  philosophers  and  theologians 
here — does  not  exist.  Millions  of  earth's  infants  are 
handicapped  at  the  start  by  having  parents  who  lack 
health,  money,  brains,  and  character;  and  in  many 
cases  the  environment  is  no  better  than  the  ancestry. 
"God  plants  us  where  we  grow,"  said  Pompilia,  and 
we  can  not  save  the  rose  by  placing  it  on  the  tree- 
top.  Robert  Browning,  who  was  perhaps  the  hap- 
piest man  in  the  nineteenth  century,  was  particularly 
fortunate  in  his  advent.  Of  the  entire  population  of 
the  planet  in  the  year  of  grace  1812,  he  could  hardly 
have  selected  a  better  father  and  mother  than  were 
chosen  for  him;  and  the  place  of  his  birth  was  just 

1 


2  BROWNING 

what  it  should  have  been,  the  biggest  town  on  earth. 
All  his  life  long  he  was  emphatically  a  city  man, 
dwelling  in  London,  Florence,  Paris,  and  Venice, 
never  remaining  long  in  rural  surroundings. 

Browning  was  born  on  May  7,  1812,  in  South- 
ampton Street,  Camberwell,  London,  a  suburb  on 
the  southern  side  of  the  river.  One  hundred  years 
later,  as  I  traversed  the  length  of  this  street,  it 
looked  squalid  in  the  rain,  and  is  indeed  sufficiently 
unlovely.  But  in  1812  it  was  a  good  residential  lo- 
cality, and  not  far  away  were  fresh  woods  and  pas- 
tures. .  .  .  The  good  health  of  Browning's  father  may 
be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  he  lived  to  be  eighty- 
four,  "without  a  day's  illness;"  he  was  a  practical, 
successful  business  man,  an  official  in  the  Bank  of 
England.  His  love  of  literature  and  the  arts  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  he  practised  them  con- 
stantly for  the  pure  joy  of  the  working;  he  wrote 
reams  and  reams  of  verse,  without  publishing  a  line. 
He  had  extraordinary  facility  in  composition,  being 
able  to  write  poetry  even  faster  than  his  son.  Ros- 
setti  said  that  he  had  "a  real  genius  for  drawing." 
He  owned  a  large  and  valuable  library,  filled  with 
curiosities  of  literature.  Robert  was  brought  up 
among  books,  even  in  earliest  youth  turning  over 
many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore. 


THE    MAN  3 

His  latest  biographers  have  shown  the  powerful  and 
permanent  effects  on  his  poetry  of  this  early  reading. 

Browning's  father — while  not  a  rich  man — had 
sufficient  income  to  give  his  son  every  possible  ad- 
vantage in  physical  and  intellectual  training,  and 
to  enable  him  to  live  without  earning  a  cent; 
after  Robert  grew  up,  he  was  absolutely  free 
to  devote  his  entire  time  and  energy  to  writing 
poetry,  which,  even  to  the  day  of  his  death, 
did  not  yield  a  livelihood.  The  young  poet 
was  free  from  care,  free  from  responsibility,  and 
able  from  childhood  to  old  age  to  bring  out  the 
best  that  was  in  him.  A  curious  and  exact  par- 
allel is  found  in  the  case  of  the  great  pessimist, 
Schopenhauer,  who  never  ceased  to  be  grateful  to 
his  father  for  making  his  whole  life-work  possible. 
In  his  later  years,  Browning  wrote :  "It  would  have 
been  quite  unpardonable  in  any  case  not  to  have  done 
my  best.  My  dear  father  put  me  in  a  condition  most 
favourable  for  the  best  work  I  was  capable  of.  When 
I  think  of  the  many  authors  who  had  to  fight  their 
way  through  all  sorts  of  difficulties  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  be  proud  of  my  achievements." 

Browning's  mother,  whom  he  loved  with  pas- 
sionate adoration,  was  a  healthy  and  sensible 
woman;  better  than  all  these  gifts,  she  was  deeply 


4  BROWNING 

religious,  with  sincere  and  unaffected  piety.  She 
was  a  Dissenter,  a  Congregationalist,  and  brought 
up  Robert  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the 
Lord,  herself  a  noble  example  of  her  teachings. 
This  evangelical  training  had  an  incalculably  strong 
influence  on  the  spirit  of  Browning's  poetry.  She 
loved  music  ardently,  and  when  Robert  was  a  boy, 
used  to  play  the  piano  to  him  in  the  twilight.  He 
always  said  that  he  got  his  devotion  to  music  from 
her. 

In  these  days,  when  there  is  such  a  strong  re- 
action everywhere  against  the  elective  system  in 
education,  it  is  interesting  to  remember  that  Brown- 
ing's education  was  simply  the  elective  system 
pushed  to  its  last  possibility.  It  is  perhaps  safe  to 
say  that  no  learned  man  in  modern  times  ever  had 
so  little  of  school  and  college.  His  education  de- 
pended absolutely  and  exclusively  on  his  inclina- 
tions; he  was  encouraged  to  study  anything  he 
wished.  His  father  granted  him  perfect  liberty, 
never  sent  him  to  any  "institution  of  learning,"  and 
allowed  him  to  do  exactly  as  he  chose,  simply  pro- 
viding competent  private  instruction  in  whatever  sub- 
ject the  youth  expressed  any  interest.  Thus  he  learned 
Greek,  Latin,  the  modern  languages,  music  (har- 
mony and  counterpoint,  as  well  as  piano  and  organ), 


THE   MAN  5 

chemistry  (a  private  laboratory  was  fitted  up  in  the 
house) ,  history  and  art.  Now  every  one  knows  that 
so  far  as  definite  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  con- 
cerned, our  schools  and  colleges — at  least  in  America 
— leave  much  to  be  desired ;  our  boys  and  girls  study 
the  classics  for  years  without  being  able  to  read  a 
page  at  sight;  and  the  modern  languages  show  a 
similarly  meagre  harvest.  If  one  wishes  positive 
and  practical  results  one  must  employ  a  private 
tutor,  or  work  alone  in  secret.  The  great  advan- 
tages of  our  schools  and  colleges — except  in  so  far 
as  they  inspire  intellectual  curiosity — are  not  pri- 
marily of  a  scholarly  nature;  their  strength  lies  in 
other  directions.  The  result  of  Browning's  educa- 
tion was  that  at  the  age  of  twenty  he  knew  more 
than  most  college  graduates  ever  know;  and  his 
knowledge  was  at  his  full  command.  His  favorite 
reading  on  the  train,  for  example,  was  a  Greek  play ; 
one  of  the  reasons  why  his  poetry  sometimes 
seems  so  pedantic  is  simply  because  he  never  realised 
how  ignorant  most  of  us  really  are.  I  suppose  he 
did  not  believe  that  men  could  pass  years  in  school 
and  university  training  and  know  so  little.  Yet  the 
truth  is,  that  most  boys,  brought  up  as  Browning 
was,  would  be  utterly  unfitted  for  the  active  duties 
and  struggles  of  life,  and  indeed  for  the  amenities 


6  BROWNING 

of  social  intercourse.  With  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred,  such  an  education,  so  far  as  it  made  for 
either  happiness  or  efficiency,  would  be  a  failure. 
But  Browning  was  the  hundredth  man.  He  was 
profoundly  learned  without  pedantry  and  without 
conceit ;  and  he  was  primarily  a  social  being. 

His  physical  training  was  not  neglected.  The  boy 
had  expert  private  instruction  in  fencing,  boxing, 
and  riding.  He  was  at  ease  on  the  back  of  a  spirited 
horse.  He  was  particularly  fond  of  dancing,  which 
later  aroused  the  wonder  of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  who 
found  it  difficult  to  imagine  the  author  of  Para- 
celsus  dancing  the  polka. 

In  1833  appeared  Browning's  first  poem,  Pauline, 
which  had  been  completed  before  he  was  twenty-one 
years  old.  His  aunt,  Mrs.  Silverthorne,  gave  him 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  which  paid  the  ex- 
penses of  publication.  Not  a  single  copy  was  sold, 
and  the  unbound  sheets  came  home  to  roost.  The 
commercial  worth  of  Pauline  was  exactly  zero;  to- 
day it  is  said  that  only  five  copies  exist.  One  was 
sold  recently  for  two  thousand  four  hundred  dollars. 

In  1834  Browning  visited  Russia,  going  by 
steamer  to  Rotterdam,  and  then  driving  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles  with  horses.  Although  he  was  in  Russia 
about  three  months,  and  at  the  most  sensitive  time 


THE    MAN  7 

of  life,  the  country  made  surprisingly  little  im- 
pression upon  him,  or  at  least  upon  his  poetry.  The 
dramatic  idyl,  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  is  practically  the 
only  literary  result  of  this  journey.  It  was  the 
south,  and  not  the  north,  that  was  to  be  the  in- 
spiration of  Browning. 

He  published  his  second  poem,  Paracelsus,  in 
1835.  Although  this  attracted  no  general  atten- 
tion, and  had  no  sale,  it  was  enthusiastically  re- 
viewed by  John  Forster,  who  declared  that  its  au- 
thor was  a  man  of  genius.  The  most  fortunate  re- 
sult of  its  appearance  was  that  it  brought  Browning 
within  the  pale  of  literary  society,  and  gave  him  the 
friendship  of  some  of  the  leading  men  in  London. 
The  great  actor  Macready  was  charmed  with  the 
poem,  and  young  Browning  haunted  Macready's 
dressing-room  at  the  theatre  for  years;  but  their 
friendship  ceased  in  1843  when  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon  was  acted.  Browning  wrote  four  plays 
for  Macready,  two  of  which  were  accepted. 

Although  Browning  late  in  life  remarked  in  a 
casual  conversation  that  he  had  visited  Italy  in 
1834,  he  must  have  been  mistaken,  for  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  find  any  record  of  such  a  journey.  To  the 
best  of  our  knowledge,  he  first  saw  the  land  of  his 
inspiration  in  1838,  sailing  from  London  on  April 


8  BROWNING 

13th,  passing  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  on  the 
twenty-ninth,  and  reaching  Trieste  on  May  30th.  On 
the  first  of  June  he  entered  Venice.  It  was  on  a 
walking-trip  that  he  first  saw  the  village  of  Asolo, 
about  thirty  miles  to  the  northeast  of  Venice.  Little 
did  he  then  realise  how  closely  his  name  would  be 
forever  associated  with  this  tiny  town.  The  scenes  of 
Pip  pa  Passes  he  located  there :  the  last  summer  of 
his  life,  in  1889,  was  spent  in  Asolo,  his  last  volume 
he  named  in  memory  of  the  village;  and  on  the  one 
hundredth  anniversary  of  his  birth,  the  street  where 
he  lived  and  wrote  in  1889  was  formally  named  Via 
Roberto  Browning.  His  son,  Robert  Barrett  Brown- 
ing, lived  to  see  this  event,  and  died  at  Asolo  on 
July  8,  1912. 

The  long  and  obscure  poem  Sordello  was  pub- 
lished in  1840;  and  then  for  thirty  years  Browning 
produced  poetry  of  the  highest  order:  poetry  that 
shows  scarcely  any  obscurity,  and  that  in  lyric  and 
dramatic  power  has  given  its  author  a  fixed  place 
among  the  greatest  names  in  English  literature. 

The  story  of  the  marriage  and  married  life  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  and  Robert  Browning  is  one  of 
the  greatest  love  stories  in  the  world's  history; 
their  love-letters  reveal  a  drama  of  noble  passion 
that  excels  in  beauty  and  intensity  the  universally 


THE    MAN  9 

popular  examples  of  Heloise  and  Abelard,  Aucassin 
and  Nicolette,  Paul  and  Virginia.  There  was  a 
mysterious  bond  between  them  long  before  the  per- 
sonal acquaintance :  each  admired  the  other's  poetry. 
Miss  Barrett  had  a  picture  of  Browning  in  her  sick- 
room, and  declared  that  the  adverse  criticism  con- 
stantly directed  against  his  verse  hurt  her  like  a 
lash  across  her  own  back.  In  a  new  volume  of 
poems,  she  made  a  complimentary  reference  to  his 
work,  and  in  January,  1845,  he  wrote  her  a  letter 
properly  beginning  with  the  two  words,  "I  love." 
It  was  her  verses  that  he  loved,  and  said  so.  In 
May  he  saw  her  and  illustrated  his  own  doctrine  by 
falling  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight.  She  was  in 
her  fortieth  year,  and  an  invalid;  but  if  any  one  is 
surprised  at  the  passion  she  aroused  in  the  hand- 
some young  poet,  six  years  her  junior,  one  has  only 
to  read  her  letters.  She  was  a  charming  woman, 
feminine  from  her  soul  to  her  finger-tips,  the  incar- 
nation of  das  Ewigweibliche.  Her  intimate  friends 
were  mostly  what  were  then  known  as  strong- 
minded  women — I  suppose  to-day  they  would  seem 
like  timid,  shy  violets.  She  was  modest,  gentle, 
winsome,  irresistible:  profoundly  learned,  with  the 
eager  heart  of  a  child. 

Wimpole  Street  in  London,  "the  long,  unlovely 


10  BROWNING 

street,"  as  Tennyson  calls  it,  is  holy  ground  to  the 
lover  of  literature :  for  at  Number  67  lived  Arthur 
Henry  Hallam,  and  diagonally  opposite,  at  Num- 
ber 50,  lived  Elizabeth  Barrett.  This  street — ut- 
terly commonplace  in  appearance — is  forever  asso- 
ciated with  the  names  of  our  two  great  Victorian 
poets :  and  the  association  with  Tennyson  is  Death : 
with  Browning,  Love. 

Not  only  was  Elizabeth  believed  to  be  a  hopeless 
invalid,  but  her  father  had  forbidden  any  of  his 
children  to  marry.  He  was  a  religious  man, 
whose  motto  in  his  own  household  was  apparently 
"Thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me."  He 
had  the  particular  kind  of  piety  that  is  most  offen- 
sive to  ordinary  humanity.  He  gave  his  children, 
for  whom  he  had  a  stern  and  savage  passion,  every- 
thing except  what  they  wanted.  He  had  an  insane 
jealousy  of  any  possible  lover,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  he  would  have  preferred  to  attend  the  funeral 
of  any  one  of  his  children  rather  than  a  marriage. 
But  Browning's  triumphant  love  knew  no  obstacles, 
and  he  persuaded  Elizabeth  Barrett  to  run  away 
with  him.  They  were  married  in  September,  1846, 
and  shortly  after  left  for  Italy.  Her  father  re- 
fused to  see  either  of  them  in  subsequent  years,  and 
returned  his  daughter's  letters  unopened.  Is  there 
anv  cause  in  nature  for  these  hard  hearts? 


THE    MAN  11 

Browning's  faith  wrought  a  miracle.  Instead  of 
dying  on  the  journey  to  Italy,  Mrs.  Browning  got 
well,  and  the  two  lived  together  in  unclouded  happi- 
ness for  fifteen  years,  until  1861,  when  she 
died  in  his  arms.  Not  a  scrap  of  writing  passed 
between  them  from  the  day  of  her  marriage  to  the 
day  of  her  death:  for  they  were  never  separated. 
She  said  that  all  a  woman  needed  to  be  perfectly 
happy  was  three  things — Life,  Love,  Italy — and  she 
had  all  three. 

The  relations  between  Elizabeth  Barrett  and 
Robert  Browning  had  all  the  wonder  and  beauty  of 
a  mediaeval  romance,  with  the  notable  addition  of 
being  historically  true.  The  familiar  story  of  a 
damosel  imprisoned  in  a  gloomy  dungeon,  guarded 
by  a  cruel  dragon — and  then,  when  all  her  hope  had 
vanished,  rescued  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
brilliant  knight,  who  carried  her  away  from  her 
dull  prison  to  a  land  of  sunshine  and  happiness — 
this  became  the  literal  experience  of  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett. Her  love  for  her  husband  was  the  passionate 
love  of  a  woman  for  a  man,  glorified  by  adoration 
for  the  champion  who  had  miraculously  trans- 
formed her  life  from  the  depths  of  despair  to  the 
topmost  heights  of  joy.  He  came,  "pouring  heaven 
into  this  shut  house  of  life."     She  expressed  the 


12  BROWNING 

daily  surprise  of  her  happiness  in  her  Sonnets,  which 
one  day  she  put  shyly  into  his  hands : 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.    Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair ; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove,   .   .   . 

"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?" — "Death!"  I  said.     But, 

there, 
The  silver  answer  rang   .   .   .   "Not  Death,  but  Love." 

My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 
From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I  was  thrown, 
And  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets,  blown 
A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hopefully 
Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 
Before  thy  saving  kiss  !    My  own,  my  own, 
Who  earnest  to  me  when  the  world  was  gone, 
And  I  who  looked  for  only  God,  found  thee  I 
I  find  thee :  I  am  safe,  and  strong,  and  glad. 
As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel 
Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time  he  had 
In  the  upper  life  ...   so  I,  with  bosom-swell, 
Make  witness  here  between  the  good  and  bad, 
That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,  retrieves  as  well. 


THE   MAN  13 

Browning  replied  to  this  wonderful  tribute  by 
appending  to  the  fifty  poems  published  in  1855  his 
One  Word  More.  He  wrote  this  in  a  metre  differ- 
ent from  any  he  had  ever  used,  for  he  meant  the 
poem  to  be  unique  in  his  works,  a  personal  expres- 
sion of  his  love.  He  remarked  that  Rafael  wrote 
sonnets,  that  Dante  painted  a  picture,  each  man  go- 
ing outside  the  sphere  of  his  genius  to  please  the 
woman  he  loved,  to  give  her  something  entirely 
apart  from  his  gifts  to  the  world.  He  wished  that 
he  could  do  something  other  than  poetry  for  his 
wife,  and  in  the  next  life  he  believed  that  it  would 
be  possible.  But  here  God  had  given  him  only  one 
gift — verse:  he  must  therefore  present  her  with  a 
specimen  of  the  only  art  he  could  command;  but  it 
should  be  utterly  unlike  all  his  other  poems,  for 
they  were  dramatic;  here  just  once,  and  for  one 
woman  only,  he  would  step  out  from  behind  the 
scenes,  and  address  her  directly  in  his  own  person. 

Of  course  Browning  could  have  modelled  a  statue, 
or  written  a  piece  of  music  for  Elizabeth,  for  in 
both  of  these  arts  he  had  attained  moderate  pro- 
ficiency: but  he  wished  not  only  to  make  a  gift  just 
for  her,  but  to  give  it  to  her  in  public,  with  the 
whole  world  regarding;  therefore  it  must  be  of  his 
best. 


14  BROWNING 

He  calls  her  his  moon  of  poets.  He  reminds  her 
how  a  few  days  ago,  they  had  seen  the  crescent 
moon  in  Florence,  how  they  had  seen  it  nightly 
waxing  until  it  lamped  the  facade  of  San  Miniato, 
while  the  nightingales,  in  ecstasy  among  the  cypress 
trees,  gave  full-throated  applause.  Then  they  had 
travelled  together  to  London,  and  now  saw  the  same 
dispirited  moon,  saving  up  her  silver  parsimoniously, 
sink  in  gibbous  meanness  behind  the  chimney-tops. 

The  notable  thing  about  the  moon  is  that  whereas 
the  earth,  during  one  revolution  about  the  sun,  turns 
on  its  own  axis  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  times, 
the  shy  moon  takes  exactly  the  same  length  of  time 
to  turn  around  as  she  takes  to  circle  once  around  the 
earth.  For  this  reason,,  earth's  inhabitants  have 
never  seen  but  one  side  of  the  moon,  and  never  will. 
Elizabeth  Browning  is  his  moon,  because  she  shows 
the  other  side  to  him  alone.  The  radiant  splendor 
of  her  poetry  fills  the  whole  earth  with  light;  but  to 
her  husband  she  shows  the  other  side,  the  lov- 
ing, domestic  woman,  the  unspeakably  precious  and 
intimate  associate  of  his  daily  life.  The  world 
thinks  it  knows  her;  but  it  has  seen  only  one  side; 
it  knows  nothing  of  the  marvellous  depth  and  purity 
of  her  real  nature. 


THE    MAN  15 

ONE  WORD  MORE 

TO  E.  B.  B. 

1855 

I 

There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together: 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

II 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas : 

These,  the  world  might  view — but  one,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?    Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  life-time? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving — 

Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 

Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's? 

Ill 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas— 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre- 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 


16  BROWNING 

IV 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  cried  too,  "Ours,  the  treasure  !" 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please?    You  whisper  "Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence)  — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel, — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he — "Certain  people  of  importance" 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 
"Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet." 
Says  the  poet — "Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 


VI 


You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not? — than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 


THE    MAN  17 

VII 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "people  of  importance": 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  for  ever. 

VIII 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture? 

This :  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize!)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient — 

Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry, — 

Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 

Does  he  write?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore?    Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked— "Shall  smiting  help  us?" 


18  BROWNING 

When  they  drank  and  sneered — "A  stroke  is  easy  I" 
When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 
Throwing  him  for  thanks — "But  drought  was  pleasant. 
Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 
Thus  the  doing  savours  of  disrelish; 
Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat; 
O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 
Carelessness  or  consciousness — the  gesture. 
For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 
Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 
Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude — 
"How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us?" 
Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel — 
"Egypt's  flesh-pots — nay,  the  drought  was  better." 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

XI 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 


THE   MAN  19 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me; 

So  it  seems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing: 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love! 

XIII 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  thro'  bronze,  may  breathe  thro'  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do. 

XIV 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth, — the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving: 
I  am  mine  and  yours — the  rest  be  all  men's, 
Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence: 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 


20  BROWNING 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 
Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

XV 

Not  but  that  you  know  me !    Lo,  the  moon's  self  1 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  colour, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  houseroofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 

XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy? 
Nay:  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy), 
All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos) 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 
Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman^ 
Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 
Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats — him,  even ! 
Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal — 
When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better ! 
Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 
Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 
Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals? 
Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 


THE    MAN  21 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved  work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also ! 

XVII 

What  were  seen  ?    None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure— the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her  I 

XVIII 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Lovel 

This  to  you — yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side,  there's  the  wonder, 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you ! 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you — 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

XIX 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel— borne,  see,  on  my  bosom! 

R.  B. 


22  BROWNING 

The  Brownings  travelled  a  good  deal :  they  vis- 
ited many  places  in  Italy,  Venice,  Ancona,  Fano, 
Siena,  and  spent  several  winters  in  Rome.  The 
winter  of  1851-52  was  passed  at  Paris,  where  on 
the  third  of  January  Browning  wrote  one  of  his 
most  notable  poems,  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark 
Tower  Came.  One  memorable  evening  at  London 
in  1855  there  were  gathered  together  in  an  upper 
room  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ten- 
nyson, Dante  and  William  Rossetti.  Tennyson  had 
just  published  Maud  and  Browning  the  two  volumes 
called  Men  and  Women.  Each  poet  was  invited  to 
read  from  his  new  work.  Tennyson,  with  one  leg 
curled  under  him  on  the  sofa,  chanted  Maud,  the 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks ;  and  then  Browning 
read  in  a  conversational  manner  his  characteristic 
poem,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi.  Rossetti  made  a  pen-and- 
ink  sketch  of  the  Laureate  while  he  was  intoning. 
On  one  of  the  journeys  made  by  the  Brownings 
from  London  to  Paris  they  were  accompanied  by 
Thomas  Carlyle,  who  wrote  a  vivid  and  charming 
account  of  the  transit.  The  poet  was  the  practical 
member  of  the  party:  the  "brave  Browning"  strug- 
gled with  the  baggage,  and  the  customs,  and  the 
train  arrangements;  while  the  Scot  philosopher 
smoked  infinite  tobacco. 


THE    MAN  23 

The  best  account  of  the  domestic  life  of  the 
Brownings  at  Casa  Guidi  in  Florence  was  written 
by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  and  published  in  his  Ital- 
ian Note-Books.  On  a  June  evening,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Browning,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  ate  strawberries  and  talked  spiritualism. 
Hawthorne  and  Browning  stood  on  the  little  bal- 
cony overlooking  the  street,  and  heard  the  priests 
chanting  in  the  church  of  San  Felice,  the  chant  heard 
only  in  June,  which  Browning  was  to  hear  again 
on  the  night  of  the  June  day  when  he  found  the  old 
yellow  book.  Both  chant  and  terrace  were  to  be 
immortalised  in  Browning's  epic.  Hawthorne  said 
that  Browning  had  an  elfin  wife  and  an  elf  child. 
"I  wonder  whether  he  will  ever  grow  up,  whether 
it  is  desirable  that  he  should."  Like  all  visitors  at 
Casa  Guidi,  the  American  was  impressed  by  the  ex- 
traordinary sweetness,  gentleness,  and  charity  of 
Elizabeth  Browning,  and  by  the  energy,  vivacity, 
and  conversational  powers  of  her  husband.  Haw- 
thorne said  he  seemed  to  be  in  all  parts  of  the  room 
at  once. 

Mr.  Barrett  Browning  told  me  in  1904  that  he 
remembered  his  mother,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing, as  clearly  as  though  he  had  seen  her  yesterday. 
He  was  eleven  years  old  at  the  time  of  her  death. 


24  BROWNING 

He  would  have  it  that  her  ill  health  had  been 
greatly  exaggerated.  She  was  an  invalid,  but  did 
not  give  the  impression  of  being  one.  She  was  able 
to  do  many  things,  and  had  considerable  power  of 
endurance.  One  day  in  Florence  she  walked  from 
her  home  out  through  the  Porta  Romana,  clear  up 
on  the  heights,  and  back  to  Casa  Guidi.  "That  was 
pretty  good,  wasn't  it?"  said  he.  She  was  of  course 
the  idol  of  the  household,  and  everything  revolved 
about  her.  She  was  "intensely  loved"  by  all  her 
friends.  Her  father  was  a  "very  peculiar  man." 
The  son's  account  of  her  health  differs  radically 
from  that  written  by  the  mother  of  E.  C.  Stedman, 
who  said  that  Mrs.  Browning  was  kept  alive  only 
by  opium,  which  she  had  to  take  daily.  This  writer 
added,  however,  that  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
wretched  health,  she  had  never  heard  her  speak  ill 
of  any  one,  though  she  talked  with  her  many  times. 
After  the  death  of  his  wife,  Browning  never  saw 
Florence  again.  He  lived  in  London,  and  after  a 
few  years  was  constantly  seen  in  society.  Tenny- 
son, who  hated  society,  said  that  Browning  would 
die  in  a  dress  suit.  His  real  fame  did  not  begin 
until  the  year  1864,  with  the  publication  of  Dramatis 
Persona.  During  the  first  thirty  years  of  his  career, 
from  the  publication  of  Pauline  in  1833  to  the  ap- 


THE   MAN  25 

pearance  of  Dramatis  Persona,  he  received  always 
tribute  from  the  few,  and  neglect,  seasoned  with 
ridicule,  from  the  many.  Pauline,  Paracelsus,  Pippa 
Passes,  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  Christmas-Eve, 
Men  and  Women — each  of  these  volumes  was 
greeted  enthusiastically  by  men  and  women  whose 
own  literary  fame  is  permanent.  But  the  world 
knew  him  not.  How  utterly  obscure  he  was  may 
be  seen  by  the  fact  that  so  late  as  1860,  when  the 
publisher's  statement  came  in  for  Men  and  Women, 
it  appeared  that  during  the  preceding  six  months 
not  a  single  copy  had  been  sold !  The  best  was  yet 
to  be.  The  Dramatis  Personce  was  the  first  of  his 
books  to  go  into  a  genuine  second  edition.  Then 
four  years  later  came  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  which 
a  contemporary  review  pronounced  to  be  the  "most 
precious  and  profound  spiritual  treasure  which  Eng- 
land has  received  since  the  days  of  Shakespeare.', 
Fame,  which  had  shunned  him  for  thirty  years, 
came  to  him  in  extraordinary  measure  during  the 
last  part  of  his  life:  another  exact  parallel  between 
him  and  the  great  pessimist  Schopenhauer.  It  was 
naturally  sweet,  its  sweetness  lessened  only  by  the 
thought  that  his  wife  had  not  lived  to  see  it.  Each 
had  always  believed  in  the  superiority  of  the  other: 
and  the  only  cloud  in  Mrs.  Browning's  mind  was 


26  BROWNING 

the  (to  her)  incomprehensible  neglect  of  her  hus- 
band by  the  public.  At  the  time  of  the  marriage,  it 
was  commonly  said  that  a  young  literary  man  had 
eloped  with  a  great  poetess :  during  their  married 
life,  her  books  went  invariably  into  many  editions, 
while  his  did  not  sell  at  all.  And  even  to  the  last 
iday  of  Browning's  earthly  existence,  her  poems  far 
outsold  his,  to  his  unspeakable  delight.  "The  de- 
mand for  my  poems  is  nothing  like  so  large,"  he 
wrote  cheerfully,  in  correcting  a  contrary  opinion 
that  had  been  printed.  Even  so  late  as  1885, 1  found 
this  passage  in  an  account  of  Mrs.  Browning's  life, 
published  that  year.  It  appears  that  "she  was  mar- 
ried in  1846  to  Robert  Browning,  who  was  also  a 
poet  and  dramatic  writer  of  some  note,  though  his 
fame  seems  to  have  been  almost  totally  eclipsed  by 
the  superior  endowments  of  his  gifted  wife."  This 
reminds  us  of  the  time  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schu- 
mann were  presented  to  a  Scandinavian  King :  Mrs. 
Schumann  played  on  the  piano,  and  His  Majesty, 
turning  graciously  to  the  silent  husband,  enquired 
"Are  you  also  musical  ?" 

The  last  summer  of  Browning's  life,  the  summer 
of  1889,  was  passed  at  Asolo:  in  the  autumn  he 
moved  into  his  beautiful  house  in  Venice,  the  Pa- 
lazzo Rezzonico,  which  had  the  finest  situation  of 


THE    MAN  27 

all  Venetian  residences,  built  at  an  angle  in  the 
Grand  Canal.  Although  seventy-seven  years  old, 
he  was  apparently  as  vigorous  as  ever:  no  change 
had  taken  place  in  his  appearance,  manner  or  habits. 
One  day  he  caught  a  bad  cold  walking  on  the  Lido 
in  a  bitter  wind ;  and  with  his  usual  vehement  energy 
declined  to  take  any  proper  care  of  his  throat.  In- 
stead of  staying  in,  he  set  out  for  long  tramps  with 
friends,  constantly  talking  in  the  raw  autumn  air. 
In  order  to  prove  to  his  son  that  nothing  was  the 
matter  with  him,  he  ran  rapidly  up  three  flights  of 
stairs,  the  son  vainly  trying  to  restrain  him.  Noth- 
ing is  more  characteristic  of  the  youthful  folly  of 
aged  folk  than  their  impatient  resentment  of  prof- 
fered hygienic  advice.  When  we  are  children,  we 
reject  with  scorn  the  suggestions  of  our  parents; 
when  we  are  old,  we  reject  with  equal  scorn  the  ad- 
vice of  our  children.  Man  is  apparently  an  animal 
more  fit  to  give  advice  than  to  take  it.  Browning's 
impulsive  rashness  proved  fatal.  Bronchitis  with 
heart  trouble  finally  sent  him  to  bed,  though  on  the 
last  afternoon  of  his  life  he  rose  and  walked  about 
the  room.  During  the  last  few  days  he  told  many 
good  stories  and  talked  with  his  accustomed  eager- 
ness. He  died  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the 
twelfth  of  December,  1889.     A  few  moments  be- 


28  BROWNING 

fore  his  death  came  a  cablegram  from  London  an- 
nouncing that  his  last  volume  of  poems  had  been 
published  that  day,  and  that  the  evening  papers  were 
speaking  in  high  terms  of  its  contents.  "That  is 
very  gratifying,"  said  he. 

Browning's  life  was  healthy,  comfortable,  and 
happy.  With  the  exception  of  frequent  headaches 
in  his  earlier  years,  he  never  knew  sickness  or 
physical  distress.  His  son  said  that  he  had  never 
seen  him  in  bed  in  the  daytime  until  the  last  illness. 
He  had  a  truly  wonderful  digestion;  it  was  his  firm 
belief  that  one  should  eat  only  what  one  really  en- 
joyed, desire  being  the  infallible  sign  that  the  food 
was  healthful.  "My  father  was  a  man  of  bonne 
fourchette"  said  Barrett  Browning  to  me ;  "he  was 
not  very  fond  of  meat,  but  liked  all  kinds  of  Italian 
dishes,  especially  with  rich  sauces.  He  always  ate 
freely  of  rich  and  delicate  things.  He  could  make 
a  whole  meal  off  mayonnaise."  It  is  pleasant  to 
remember  that  Emerson,  the  other  great  optimist 
of  the  century,  used  to  eat  pie  for  breakfast.  Un- 
like Carlyle  and  Tennyson,  who  smoked  constantly, 
Browning  never  used  tobacco;  he  drank  wine  with 
his  meals,  but  sparingly,  and  never  more  than  one 
kind  of  wine  at  a  dinner.  While  physically  robust, 
fond  of  riding  and  walking,  never  using  a  cab  or 


THE    MAN  29 

public  conveyance  if  he  could  help  it,  he  was  like 
most  first-class  literary  men  in  caring  nothing  what- 
ever for  competitive  sports.  He  did  not  learn  to 
swim  until  late  in  life;  his  son  taught  him  at  Pornic, 
in  Brittany.  He  was  venturesome  for  a  man  well 
on  in  years,  swimming  far  out  with  boyish  delight, 
as  he  has  himself  described  it  in  the  Prologue  to 
Fifine  at  the  Fair. 

Browning's  eyes  were  peculiar,  one  having  a  long 
focus,  the  other  very  short.  He  had  the  unusual  ac- 
complishment (try  it  and  prove)  of  closing  either 
eye  without  "squinching,"  and  without  any  appar- 
ent effort,  though  sometimes  on  the  street  in  strong 
sunshine  his  face  would  be  a  bit  distorted.  He  did 
all  his  reading  and  writing  with  one  eye,  closing  the 
long  one  as  he  sat  down  at  his  desk.  He  never  wore 
glasses,  and  was  proud  of  his  microscopic  eye.  He 
often  wrote  minutely,  to  show  off  his  powers.  When 
he  left  the  house  to  go  for  a  walk,  he  shut  the  short 
eye  and  opened  the  long  one,  with  which  he  could  see 
an  immense  distance.  He  never  suffered  with  any 
pain  in  his  eyes  except  once,  when  a  boy,  he  was 
trying  to  be  a  vegetarian  in  imitation  of  his  youth- 
ful idol,  Shelley. 

Contrary  to  the  oft-repeated  statement,  Browning 
was  not  a  really  fine  pianist.    As  a  very  young  man, 


30  BROWNING 

he  used  to  play  several  instruments,  and  once  he 
had  been  able  to  play  all  of  Beethoven's  sonatas  on 
the  piano.  In  later  life  he  became  ambitious  to  im- 
prove his  skill  with  this  instrument,  and  had  much 
trouble,  for  his  fingers  were  clumsy  and  stiff.  He 
therefore  used  to  rise  at  six,  and  practise  finger- 
exercises  for  an  hour ! 

He  loved  first-class  music  ardently,  had  a  pro- 
found knowledge  of  it,  and  was  a  good  judge.  If 
the  performance  was  fine,  he  would  express  his 
praise  with  the  utmost  enthusiasm;  but  bad  work 
caused  him  acute  pain.  Sometimes  at  a  concert  he 
would  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  his  suffering  being 
apparently  uncontrollable. 

The  salient  feature  of  his  character  was  his  boy- 
ish vivacity  and  enthusiasm.  If  he  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  saw  a  friend  coming  along  the 
street  to  call,  he  would  often  rush  out  and  embrace 
him.  In  conversation  he  was  extraordinarily  eager 
and  impulsive,  with  a  great  flow  of  talk  on  an  enor- 
mous range  of  subjects.  If  he  liked  anything,  he 
spoke  of  it  in  the  heartiest  manner,  laughing  aloud 
with  delight.  He  was  very  generous  in  his  apprecia- 
tion and  praise  of  other  men's  work,  being  beauti- 
fully free  from  that  jealousy  which  is  one  of  the 
besetting  sins  of  artists.     He  always  tried  to  see 


THE    MAN  31 

what  was  good.  Occasionally  he  was  enraged  at 
reading  a  particularly  hostile  criticism  of  himself, 
but  on  the  whole  he  stood  abuse  very  well,  and  had 
abundant  opportunity  to  exercise  the  gift  of  pa- 
tience. A  great  admirer  of  Tennyson's  poetry  and 
of  Tennyson's  character — they  were  dear  and  inti- 
mate friends — he  never  liked  the  stock  comparison. 
"Tennyson  and  I  are  totally  unlike,"  he  used  to 
say.  No  letter  from  one  rival  to  another  was  ever 
more  beautiful  than  the  letter  Browning  wrote  to 
Tennyson  on  the  occasion  of  the  Laureate's  eightieth 
birthday: 

"My  Dear  Tennyson — To-morrow  is  your  birth- 
day— indeed,  a  memorable  one.  Let  me  say  I  asso- 
ciate myself  with  the  universal  pride  of  our  country 
in  your  glory,  and  in  its  hope  that  for  many  and 
many  a  year  we  may  have  your  very  self  among  us 
—secure  that  your  poetry  will  be  a  wonder  and  de- 
light to  all  those  appointed  to  come  after.  And  for 
my  own  part,  let  me  further  say,  I  have  loved  you 
dearly.    May  God  bless  you  and  yours. 

"At  no  moment  from  first  to  last  of  my  acquaint- 
ance with  your  works,  or  friendship  with  yourself, 
have  I  had  any  other  feeling,  expressed  or  kept 
silent,  than  this  which  an  opportunity  allows  me  to 
utter — that  I  am  and  ever  shall  be,  my  dear  Tenny- 
son, admiringly  and  affectionately  yours, 

"Robert  Browning." 

What  I  have  said  of  Browning's  impulsiveness  is 


32  BROWNING 

borne  out  not  only  by  the  universal  testimony  of 
those  who  knew  him  well,  but  particularly  by  a  let- 
ter of  Mrs.  Browning  to  Mrs.  Jameson.  The 
manuscript  of  this  letter  was  bought  in  London  by 
an  American,  and  went  down  with  the  Titanic  in 
1912.  An  extract  from  it  appeared  in  a  bookseller's 
catalogue — "You  must  learn  Robert — he  is  made 
of  moods — chequered  like  a  chess-board;  and  the 
colour  goes  for  too  much — till  you  learn  to  treat 
it  as  a  game." 

No  man — little  or  great — was  ever  more  free 
from  pose.  His  appearance,  in  clothes  and  in  hair, 
was  studiously  normal.  No  one  in  his  later  years 
would  ever  have  guessed  that  he  was  a  poet,  either 
in  seeing  him  on  the  street,  or  in  meeting  him  at  din- 
ner. He  was  interested  in  multitudinous  things,  but 
never  spoke  of  poetry — either  in  general  or  in  his 
own  particular — if  he  could  avoid  doing  so.  The 
fact  that  strangers  who  were  presented  to  him  and 
talked  with  him  did  not  guess  that  he  was  the  Mr. 
Browning,  gave  rise  to  numberless  humorous  sit- 
uations. 

Perhaps  the  best  thing  that  can  be  said  of  his  per- 
sonal character  is  the  truthful  statement  that  he 
stood  in  the  finest  manner  two  searching  tests  of 
manhood — long  neglect  and  sudden  popularity.  The 


THE   MAN  33 

long  years  of  oblivion,  during  which  he  was  pro- 
ducing much  of  his  best  work,  made  him  neither 
angry  nor  sour,  though  he  must  have  suffered  deeply. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  his  fame  reached  prodig- 
ious proportions,  he  was  neither  conceited  nor  af- 
fected. He  thoroughly  believed  in  himself,  and  in 
his  work;  and  he  cared  more  about  it  than  he  did 
for  its  reception. 

The  crushing  grief  that  came  to  him  in  the  death 
of  his  wife  he  bore  with  that  Christian  resignation 
of  which  we  hear  more  often  than  perhaps  we  see 
in  experience.  For  Browning  was  a  Christian,  not 
only  in  faith  but  in  conduct ;  it  was  the  mainspring 
of  his  art  and  of  his  life.  There  are  so  many  writers 
whose  lives  show  so  painful  a  contrast  with  the 
ideal  tone  of  their  written  work,  that  it  is  refreshing 
and  inspiring  to  be  so  certain  of  Browning;  to  know 
that  the  author  of  the  poems  which  thrill  us  was 
as  great  in  character  as  he  was  in  genius. 


II 


WITH  one  exception,  the  economic  law  of 
supply  and  demand  governs  the  production 
of  literature  exactly  as  it  determines  the  price  of 
wheat.  For  many  years  the  Novel  has  been  the  chief 
channel  of  literary  expression,  the  dominant  literary 
form:  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  Drama 
was  supreme.  During  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  theological  poetry  enjoyed  a 
great  vogue;  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  circulated  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  modern  detective  story.  Consider 
the  history  of  the  English  sonnet.  This  form  of 
verse  was  exceedingly  popular  in  1600.  By  1660  it 
had  vanished,  and  remained  obsolete  for  nearly  a 
hundred  years;  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  it  was  revived  by  Thomas  Edwards  and 
others ;  in  the  nineteenth  century  it  became  fashion- 
able, and  still  holds  its  place,  as  one  may  see  by  open- 
ing current  magazines.  Why  is  it  that  writers  put 
their  ideas  on  God,  Nature,  and  Woman  in  the  form 

34 


*  BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    35 

of  a  drama  in  1600,  and  in  the  form  of  a  novel  in 
1900?  Why  is  it  that  an  inspired  man  should  make 
poems  of  exactly  fourteen  lines  in  1580  and  in  1880, 
and  not  do  it  in  1680?  If  we  do  not  attempt  an 
ultimate  metaphysical  analysis,  the  answer  is  clear. 
The  bookseller  supplies  the  public,  the  publisher  sup- 
plies the  bookseller,  the  author  supplies  the  pub- 
lisher. A  bookseller  has  in  his  window  what  the 
people  want,  and  the  publisher  furnishes  material 
in  response  to  the  same  desire;  just  as  a  farmer 
plants  in  his  fields  some  foodstuffs  for  which  there 
is  a  sharp  demand.  Authors  are  compelled  to  write 
for  the  market,  whether  they  like  it  or  not,  other- 
wise their  work  can  not  appear  in  print.  The  rea- 
son why  the  modern  novel,  with  all  its  shortcomings, 
is  the  mirror  of  ideas  on  every  conceivable  topic  in 
religious,  educational,  economic,  and  sociological 
thought,  is  because  the  vast  majority  of  writers  are 
at  this  moment  compelled  by  the  market  to  put  their 
reflections  into  the  form  of  novels,  just  as  Mar- 
lowe and  Chapman  were  forced  to  write  plays. 
With  one  exception,  the  law  of  supply  and  demand 
determines  the  metrical  shape  of  the  poet's  frenzy, 
and  the  prose  mould  of  the  philosopher's  ideas. 

The  exception  is  so  rare  that  it  establishes  the 
rule.    The  exception  is  Genius — next  to  radium  the 


36  BROWNING 

scarcest  article  on  earth.  And  even  Genius  often 
follows  the  market — it  takes  the  prevailing  literary 
fashion,  and  adapts  itself  to  the  form  in  vogue  in  a 
more  excellent  way.  Such  genius — the  Genius  for 
Adaptation — never  has  to  wait  long  for  recognition, 
simply  because  it  supplies  a  keen  popular  demand. 
Such  a  genius  was  Shakespeare :  such  a  genius  was 
Pope:  such  a  genius  was  Scott:  such  a  genius  was 
Byron :  such  a  genius  was  Tennyson.  But  the  true 
exception  to  the  great  economic  law  is  seen  in  the 
Man  of  Original  Genius,  who  cares  not  at  all  for 
the  fashion  except  perhaps  to  destroy  it.  This  man 
is  outside  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  because 
he  supplies  no  demand,  and  there  exists  no  demand 
for  him.  He  therefore  has  to  create  the  demand 
as  well  as  the  supply.  Such  a  man  in  Music  was 
Wagner :  such  a  man  in  Drama  was  Ibsen :  such  a 
man  in  Poetry  was  Browning. 

These  three  men  were  fortunate  in  all  reaching 
the  age  of  seventy,  for  had  they  died  midway  in 
their  careers,  even  after  accomplishing  much  of 
their  best  work,  they  would  have  died  in  obscurity. 
They  had  to  wait  long  for  recognition,  because  no- 
body was  looking  for  them,  nobody  wanted  them. 
There  was  no  demand  for  Wagner's  music — but 
there  is  now,  and  he  made  it.     There  was  no  de- 


BROWNING'S   THEORY    OF    POETRY    37 

mand  for  plays  like  those  of  Ibsen;  and  there  was 
not  the  slightest  demand  for  poetry  like  Pauline  and 
the  Dramatic  Lyrics.  The  reason  why  the  public 
does  not  immediately  recognise  the  greatness  of  a 
work  of  original  genius,  is  because  the  public  at 
first — if  it  notices  the  thing  at  all — apprehends  not 
its  greatness,  but  its  strangeness.  It  is  so  unlike  the 
thing  the  public  is  seeking,  that  it  seems  grotesque 
or  absurd — many  indeed  declare  that  it  is  exactly 
the  opposite  of  what  it  professes  to  be.  Thus,  many 
insisted  that  Ibsen's  so-called  dramas  were  not  really 
plays :  they  were  merely  conversations  on  serious 
and  unpleasant  themes.  In  like  manner,  the  critics 
said  that  Wagner,  whatever  he  composed,  did  not 
compose  music;  for  instead  of  making  melodies,  he 
made  harsh  and  discordant  sounds.  For  eighty  years, 
many  men  of  learning  and  culture  have  been  loudly 
proclaiming  that  Browning,  whatever  he  was,  was 
not  a  poet;  he  was  ingenious,  he  was  thoughtful,  a 
philosopher,  if  you  like,  but  surely  no  poet.  When 
The  Ring  and  the  Book  was  published,  a  thoroughly 
respectable  British  critic  wrote,  "Music  does  not 
exist  for  him  any  more  than  for  the  deaf."  On  the 
other  hand,  the  accomplished  poet,  musician,  and 
critic,  Sidney  Lanier,  remarked: 

"Have  you  seen  Browning's  The  Ring  and  the 


38  BROWNING 

Book?  I  am  confident  that  at  the  birth  of  this  man, 
among  all  the  good  fairies  who  showered  him  with 
magnificent  endowments,  one  bad  one — as  in  the 
old  tale — crept  in  by  stealth  and  gave  him  a  consti- 
tutional twist  i'  the  neck,  whereby  his  windpipe  be- 
came, and  has  ever  since  remained,  a  marvellous 
tortuous  passage.  Out  of  this  glottis-labyrinth  his 
words  won't,  and  can't,  come  straight.  A  hitch  and 
a  sharp  crook  in  every  sentence  bring  you  up  with  a 
shock.  But  what  a  shock  it  is !  Did  you  ever  see  a 
picture  of  a  lasso,  in  the  act  of  being  flung?  In  a 
thousand  coils  and  turns,  inextricably  crooked  and 
involved  and  whirled,  yet,  if  you  mark  the  noose 
at  the  end,  you  see  that  it  is  directly  in  front  of  the 
bison's  head,  there,  and  is  bound  to  catch  him! 
That  is  the  way  Robert  Browning  catches  you.  The 
first  sixty  or  seventy  pages  of  The  Ring  and  the 
Book  are  altogether  the  most  doleful  reading,  in 
point  either  of  idea  or  of  music,  in  the  English  lan- 
guage; and  yet  the  monologue  of  Giuseppe  Capon- 
sacchi,  that  of  Pompilia  Comparini,  and  the  two  of 
Guido  Franceschini,  are  unapproachable,  in  their 
kind,  by  any  living  or  dead  poet,  me  judice.  Here 
Browning's  jerkiness  comes  in  with  inevitable  effect. 
You  get  lightning  glimpses — and,  as  one  naturally 
expects  from  lightning,  zigzag  glimpses — into  the 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    39 

intense  night  of  the  passion  of  these  souls.  It  is 
entirely  wonderful  and  without  precedent."1 

One  of  the  most  admirable  things  about  Brown- 
ing's admirable  career  as  poet  and  man  is  that  he 
wrote  not  to  please  the  critics,  as  Tennyson  often 
did,  not  to  please  the  crowd,  as  the  vast  horde  of 
ephemeral  writers  do,  but  to  please  himself.  The 
critics  and  the  crowd  professed  that  they  could  not 
understand  him;  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  under- 
standing them.  He  knew  exactly  what  they  wanted, 
and  declined  to  supply  it.  Instead  of  giving  them 
what  he  thought  they  wanted,  he  gave  them  what  he 
thought  they  needed.  That  illustrates  the  difference 
between  the  literary  caterer  and  the  literary  master. 
Some  poets,  critics,  dramatists,  and  novelists  are 
born  to  be  followers  of  the  public  taste;  they  have 
their  reward.  Only  a  few,  and  one  at  a  time,  are 
leaders.  This  is  entirely  as  it  should  be,  for,  with 
followers,  the  more  the  merrier;  with  leaders  it  is 
quite  otherwise. 

In  the  case  of  a  man  of  original  genius,  the  first 
evidence  of  approaching  fame  is  seen  in  the  dust 
raised  by  contempt,  scorn,  ridicule,  and  various 
forms  of  angry  resistance  from  those  who  will  ulti^ 


1  Life  of  Sidney  Lanier,  by  Professor  Edwin  Mims. 


40  BROWNING 

mately  be  converts.  People  resist  him  as  they  resist 
the  Gospel.  He  comes  unto  his  own,  and  his  own 
receive  him  not.  The  so-called  reading  public  have 
the  stupid  cruelty  of  schoolboys,  who  will  not  tol- 
erate on  the  part  of  any  newcomer  the  slightest  di- 
vergence in  dress,  manners,  or  conversation  from 
the  established  standard.  Conformity  is  king;  for 
schoolboys  are  the  most  conservative  mass  of  inertia 
that  can  be  found  anywhere  on  earth.  And  they 
are  thorough  masters  of  ridicule — the  most  pow- 
erful weapon  known  to  humanity.  But  as  in  school- 
boy circles  the  ostracising  laughter  is  sometimes  a 
sign  that  a  really  original  boy  has  made  his  appear- 
ance, so  the  unthinking  opposition  of  the  conven- 
tional army  of  readers  is  occasionally  a  proof  that 
the  new  man  has  made  a  powerful  impression  which 
can  not  be  shaken  off. 

This  is  what  Browning  did  with  his  "lasso"  style. 
It  was  suitably  adapted  to  his  purposes,  and  the 
public  behaved  somewhat  like  the  buffalo.  They 
writhed,  kicked,  struggled,  plunged,  and  the  greater 
the  uproar,  the  more  evident  it  was  that  they  were 
caught.  Shortly  before  his  death,  Professor  F.  J. 
Child,  a  scholar  of  international  fame,  told  me  an- 
grily that  Wagner  was  no  musician  at  all;  that  he 
was  a  colossal  fraud;  that  the  growing  enthusiasm 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    41 

for  him  was  mere  affectation,  which  would  soon 
pass  away.  He  spoke  with  extraordinary  passion. 
I  wondered  at  his  rage,  but  I  understand  it  now.  It 
was  the  rage  of  a  king  against  the  incoming  and  in- 
exorable tide. 

Nothing  is  more  singular  to  contemplate  than  the 
variations  in  form  of  what  the  public  calls  melody, 
both  in  notation  and  in  language.  What  delights 
the  ears  of  one  generation  distresses  or  wearies  the 
ears  of  another.  Elizabethan  audiences  listened 
with  rapture  to  long  harangues  in  bombastic  blank 
verse :  a  modern  audience  can  not  endure  this.  The 
senses  of  Queen  Anne  Englishmen  were  charmed 
by  what  they  called  the  melody  of  Pope's  verse — by 
its  even  regularity  and  steady  flow.  To  us  Pope's 
verse  is  full  of  wit  and  cerebration,  but  we  find  the 
measure  intolerably  monotonous.  Indeed,  by  a 
curious  irony  of  fate,  Pope,  who  regarded  himself 
as  a  supreme  poet,  has  since  frequently  been  declared 
to  be  no  poet  at  all.  Keats  wrote  Endymion  in  the 
heroic  couplet — the  very  measure  employed  by  Pope. 
But  his  use  of  it  was  so  different  that  this  poem 
would  have  seemed  utterly  lacking  in  melody  to 
Augustan  ears — Pope  would  have  attempted  to 
"versify"  it.  And  yet  we  enjoy  it.  It  seems  ridicu- 
lous to  say  that  the  man  who  wrote  Der  fliegende 


42  BROWNING 

Hollander  and  Tannhduser  could  not  write  melody, 
and  yet  it  was  almost  universally  said.  It  seems 
strange  that  critics  should  have  declared  that  the 
man  who  wrote  Love  Among  the  Ruins  could  not 
write  rhythmical  verse,  yet  such  was  once  almost  the 
general  opinion.  Still,  the  rebellious  instinct  of  the 
public  that  condemned  Wagner  in  music  and  Brown- 
ing in  poetry  was  founded  on  something  genuine; 
for  Wagner  was  unlike  other  musicians,  and 
Browning  was  unlike  other  poets. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  for  December,  1833,  contained 
a  review  of  Browning's  first  poem,  Pauline,  which 
had  been  published  that  year.  The  critic  decided 
that  the  new  poet  was  mad :  "you  being,  beyond  all 
question,  as  mad  as  Cassandra,  without  any  of  the 
power  to  prophesy  like  her,  or  to  construct  a  con- 
nected sentence  like  anybody  else.  We  have  already 
had  a  Monomaniac;  and  we  designate  you  'The 
Mad  Poet  of  the  Batch;'  as  being  mad  not  in  one 
direction  only,  but  in  all.  A  little  lunacy,  like  a 
little  knowledge,  would  be  a  dangerous  thing." 

Yet  it  was  in  this  despised  and  rejected  poem 
that  a  great,  original  genius  in  English  poetry  was 
first  revealed.  It  is  impossible  to  understand 
Browning  or  even  to  read  him  intelligently  without 
firmly  fixing  in  the  mind  his  theory  of  poetry,  and 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    43 

comprehending  fully  his  ideal  and  his  aim.  All  this 
he  set  forth  clearly  in  Pauline,  and  though  he  was 
only  twenty  years  old  when  he  wrote  it,  he  never 
wavered  from  his  primary  purpose  as  expressed  in 
two  lines  of  the  poem,  two  lines  that  should  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  really  wish  to  enjoy  the 
study  of  Browning: 

And  then  thou  said'st  a  perfect  bard  was  one 
Who  chronicled  the  stages  of  all  life. 

What  is  most  remarkable  about  this  definition  of 
poetry  is  what  it  omits.  The  average  man  regards 
poetry  as  being  primarily  concerned  with  the  crea- 
tion of  beauty.  Not  a  word  is  said  about  beauty  in 
Browning's  theory.  The  average  man  regards  poetry 
as  being  necessarily  melodious,  rhythmical,  tuneful, 
above  all,  pleasing  to  the  senses;  but  Browning 
makes  no  allusion  here  to  rime  or  rhythm,  nor  to 
melody  or  music  of  any  sort.  To  him  the  bard  is  a 
Reporter  of  Life,  an  accurate  Historian  of  the  Soul, 
one  who  observes  human  nature  in  its  various  mani- 
festations, and  gives  a  faithful  record.  Sound, 
rhythm,  beauty  are  important,  because  they  are  a 
part  of  life;  and  they  are  to  be  found  in  Brown- 
ing's works  like  wild  flowers  in  a  field;  but  they 
are  not  in  themselves  the  main  things.     The  main 


44  BROWNING 

thing  is  human  life  in  its  totality.  Exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  poet's  power  of  portraying  life,  is  the 
poet  great;  if  he  correctly  describes  a  wide  range  of 
life,  he  is  greater  than  if  he  has  succeeded  only  in  a 
narrow  stretch;  and  the  Perfect  Bard  would  be  the 
one  who  had  chronicled  the  stages  of  all  life. 
Shakespeare  is  the  supreme  poet  because  he  has  ap- 
proached nearer  to  this  ideal  than  any  one  else — he 
has  actually  chronicled  most  phases  of  humanity, 
and  has  truthfully  painted  a  wide  variety  of  charac- 
ter. Browning  therefore  says  of  him  in  Christmas- 
Eve — 

As  I  declare  our  Poet,  him 

Whose  insight  makes  all  others  dim : 

A  thousand  poets  pried  at  life, 

And  only  one  amid  the  strife 

Rose  to  be  Shakespeare. 

Brownings  poetry,  as  he  elsewhere  expresses  it,  was 
always  dramatic  in  principle,  always  an  attempt  to 
interpret  human  life.  With  that  large  number  of 
highly  respectable  and  useful  persons  who  do  not 
care  whether  they  understand  him  or  not,  I  have 
here  no  concern:  but  to  those  who  really  wish  to 
learn  his  secret,  I  insist  that  his  main  intention  must 
ever  be  kept  in  mind.  Much  of  his  so-called  obscur- 
ity, harshness,  and  uncouthness  falls  immediately 
into  its  proper  place,  is  indeed  necessary.    The  proof 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    45 

of  his  true  greatness  not  as  a  philosopher,  thinker, 
psychologist,  but  as  a  poet,  lies  in  the  simple  fact 
that  when  the  subject-matter  he  handles  is  beautiful 
or  sublime,  his  style  is  usually  adequate  to  the  situa- 
tion. Browning  had  no  difficulty  in  writing  melodi- 
ously when  he  placed  the  posy  in  the  Ring, 

O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire, 

although  just  a  moment  before,  when  he  was  joking 
about  his  lack  of  readers,  he  was  anything  but  mu- 
sical. The  Ring  and  the  Book  is  full  of  exquisite 
beauty,  amazing  felicity  of  expression,  fluent  rhythm 
and  melody;  full  also  of  crudities,  jolts,  harshness, 
pedantry,  wretched  witticisms,  and  coarseness.  Why 
these  contrasts  ?  Because  it  is  a  study  of  human  tes- 
timony. The  lawyers  in  this  work  speak  no  radiant 
or  spiritual  poetry;  they  talk  like  tiresome,  con- 
ceited pedants  because  they  were  tiresome,  conceited 
pedants ;  Pompilia's  dying  speech  of  adoring  passion 
for  Caponsacchi  is  sublime  music,  because  she  was  a 
spiritual  woman  in  a  glow  of  exaltation.  Guido 
speaks  at  first  with  calm,  smiling  irony,  and  later 
rages  like  a  wild  beast  caught  in  a  spring-trap;  in 
both  cases  the  verse  fits  his  mood.  If  Pompilia's 
tribute  to  Caponsacchi  had  been  expressed  in  Ian- 


46  BROWNING 

guage  as  dull  and  flat  as  the  pleas  of  the  lawyers, 
then  we  should  be  quite  sure  that  Browning,  what- 
ever he  was,  was  no  poet.  For  it  would  indicate  that 
he  could  not  create  the  right  diction  for  the  right  sit- 
uation and  character.  Now,  his  picture  of  the  triple 
light  of  sunset  in  The  Last  Ride  Together  is  almost 
intolerably  beautiful,  because  such  a  scene  fairly 
overwhelms  the  senses.  I  hear  the  common  and  un- 
intelligent comment,  "Ah,  if  he  had  only  always 
written  like  that!"  He  would  have  done  so,  if  he 
had  been  interested  in  only  the  beautiful  aspects  of 
this  world.  "How  could  the  man  who  wrote  such 
lovely  music  as  that  have  also  written  such  harsh 
stuff  as  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium?"  The  answer  is 
that  in  the  former  he  was  chronicling  a  stage  of  life 
that  in  its  very  essence  was  beauty:  in  the  latter, 
something  exactly  the  opposite.  Life  has  its  triviali- 
ties and  its  ugliness,  as  well  as  its  sublime  aspira- 
tions. In  Browning's  poetry,  whenever  the  thought 
rises,  the  style  automatically  rises  with  it. 

Compare  the  diction  of  Holy  Cross  Day  with  that 
in  Love  Among  the  Ruins.  Cleon  is  an  old  Greek 
poet,  and  he  speaks  noble,  serene  verse:  Bishop 
Blougram  is  a  subtle  dialectician,  a  formidable  an- 
tagonist in  a  joint  debate,  and  he  has  the  appropriate 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    47 

manner  and  language.  Would  you  have  him  talk 
like  the  lover  in  Evelyn  Hope? 

Browning  was  a  great  artist,  and  the  grotesque  is 
an  organic  part  of  his  structures.  To  find  fault  with 
the  grotesque  excrescences  in  Browning's  poetry  is 
exactly  like  condemning  a  cathedral  because  it  has 
gargoyles.  How  could  the  architect  that  dreamed 
those  wonderful  columns  and  arches  have  made 
those  hideous  gargoyles  ?  Did  he  flatter  himself  they 
were  beautiful?  When  Macbeth  was  translated 
into  German,  the  translator  was  aghast  at  the 
coarse  language  of  the  drunken  porter.  How  could 
the  great  Shakespeare,  who  had  proved  so  often  his 
capacity  as  an  artist,  have  made  such  an  appalling 
blunder  ?  So  the  translator  struck  out  the  offensive 
words,  and  made  the  porter  sing  a  sweet  hymn  to  the 
dawn. 

The  theory  of  poetry  originally  stated  in  Pauline 
Browning  not  only  endeavored  to  exemplify  in  his 
work ;  he  often  distinctly  repeated  it.  In  The  Glove, 
all  the  courtiers,  hide-bound  by  conventional  ideas, 
unite  in  derisive  insults  howled  at  the  lady.  She 
goes  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter.  Only  two 
men  follow  her:  one,  because  he  loves  her;  the 
other,  for  purely  professional  reasons.  To-day,  he 
would  of  course  be  a  society  reporter.     "I  beg 


48  BROWNING 

your  pardon,  Madam,  but  would  you  kindly  grant 
me  an  interview  ?  I  represent  the  New  York  Flash, 
and  we  shall  be  glad  to  present  your  side  of  this 
story  in  our  next  Sunday  issue."  With  equal  pro- 
fessional zeal,  Peter  Ronsard  is  keenly  interested  in 
discovering  the  motives  that  underlay  the  lady's 
action.  He  simply  must  know,  and  in  defense  of 
his  importunity,  he  presents  his  credentials.  He  is  a 
poet,  and  therefore  the  strange  scene  that  has  just 
been  enacted  comes  within  his  special  domain. 

I  followed  after, 
And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant? 
If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recallment? 
"For  I" — so  I  spoke — "am  a  poet : 
Human  nature, — behoves  that  I  know  it  I" 

In  Transcendentalism,  a  poem  which  is  commonly 
misunderstood,  Browning  informs  us  that  the  true 
poet  must  deal,  not  with  abstract  thought,  but  with 
concrete  things.  A  young  poet  informs  an  elder  col- 
league that  he  has  just  launched  a  huge  philosophical 
poem,  called  Transcendentalism:  a  Poem  in  Twelve 
Books.  His  wiser  critic  tells  him  that  he  is  on  the 
wrong  track  altogether ;  what  he  has  written  is  prose, 
not  poetry.  Poetry  is  not  a  discussion  of  abstract 
ideas,  but  the  creation  of  individual  things.  Tran- 
scendentalism is  not  a  fit  subject  for  poetry,  because 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    49 

it  deals  with  metaphysical  thought,  instead  of  dis- 
cussing men  and  women.  To  illustrate  his  point,  he 
makes  a  comparison  between  botany  and  roses. 
Which  is  the  more  interesting,  to  read  a  heavy  trea- 
tise on  botany,  or  to  behold  roses?  A  few  pedants 
may  like  botany  better,  but  ordinary  humanity  is 
quite  right  in  preferring  flowers.  Browning  indi- 
cates that  the  poet  should  not  compose  abstract 
treatises,  but  should  create  individual  works  of  art, 
like  the  stout  Mage  of  Halberstadt, 

John,  who  made  things  Boehme  wrote  thoughts  about. 
He  with  a  "look  you !"  vents  a  brace  of  rhymes, 
And  in  there  breaks  the  sudden  rose  herself, 
Over  us,  under,  round  us  every  side, 
Nay,  in  and  out  the  tables  and  the  chairs 
And  musty  volumes,  Boehme's  book  and  all, — 
Buries  us  with  a  glory,  young  once  more, 
Pouring  heaven  into  this  shut  house  of  life. 

Many  have  failed  to  understand  this  poem,  because 
they  think  that  Browning  himself  is  constantly  guilty 
of  the  sin  specifically  condemned  here.  Browning  has 
indeed  often  been  called  a  thinker,  a  philosopher :  but 
a  moment's  serious  reflection  will  prove  that  of  all 
English  poetry  outside  of  the  drama,  Browning's  is 
the  least  abstract  and  the  most  concrete.  Poetry  is 
not  condemned  because  it  arouses  thought,  but  only 
when  it  is  abstract  in  method.    Browning  often  deals 


50  BROWNING 

with  profound  ideas,  but  always  by  concrete  illus- 
trations. For  example,  he  discusses  the  doctrine  of 
predestination  by  giving  us  the  individual  figure  of 
Johannes-Agricola  in  meditation:  the  royalist  point 
of  view  in  the  seventeenth  century  by  cavaliers  sing- 
ing three  songs :  the  damnation  of  indecision  by  two 
Laodicsean  lovers  in  The  Statue  and  the  Bust. 
When  Browning  is  interested  in  any  doctrine,  idea, 
or  system  of  thought,  he  creates  a  person  to  illus- 
trate it. 

Browning's  theory  of  poetry  is  further  reen- 
forced  by  his  poem  How  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary, 
which,  in  the  final  rearrangement  of  his  works,  he 
placed  directly  after  Transcendentalism,  as  though 
to  drive  his  doctrine  home.  Here  is  a  picture  of  a 
real  poet.  Where  does  he  live,  whence  does  he  get 
his  sources  of  inspiration,  and  how  does  he  pass  his 
time  ?  The  poem  answers  these  questions  in  a  most 
instructive  manner,  if  only  we  keep  in  mind  the  orig- 
inal definition  given  in  Pauline.  It  is  conventionally 
believed  that  the  country  is  more  poetic  than  the 
city :  that  an  ideal  residence  for  a  poet  would  be  in 
lonely,  lovely,  romantic  scenery ;  and  that  in  splendid 
solitude  and  isolation  he  should  clothe  his  thoughts 
in  forms  of  beauty.  Now  Browning's  own  life  and 
methods  of  work  were  in  exact  contrast  to  these  pop- 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     51 

ular  ideas;  because  his  theory  of  poetry  requires  the 
poet  to  live  in  the  very  midst  of  human  activities, 
and  to  draw  his  inspiration  not  from  a  mountain  or 
the  stars,  but  from  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men. 
Thus,  in  the  poem,  How  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary, 
the  poet  lives  in  a  noisy  city,  spends  his  time  walking 
the  streets,  and  instead  of  being  lost  in  a  trance,  he 
is  intensely  aware  of  everything  that  happens  in  the 
town.  The  poet  is  an  observer,  not  a  dreamer.  In- 
deed, the  citizens  think  this  old  poet  is  a  royal  spy, 
because  he  notices  people  and  events  with  such  sharp 
attention.  Browning  would  seem  to  say  that  the 
mistake  is  a  quite  natural  one ;  the  poet  ought  to  act 
like  a  spy,  for,  if  he  be  a  true  poet,  he  is  a  spy — a  spy 
on  human  life.  He  takes  upon  himself  the  mystery 
of  things,  as  if  he  were  God's  spy. 

He  walked  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face.    .    .    . 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 
If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw ; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note. 

This  is  an  exact  description  of  the  way  Robert 
Browning  walked  the  streets  of  Florence.  Only  a 
few  years  after  this  poem  was  printed,  he  was  glanc- 


52  BROWNING 

ing  o'er  the  books  on  stalls  in  the  square  of  San  Lo- 
renzo, and  found  the  old  yellow  volume  which  he 
turned  into  an  epic  of  humanity.  The  true  poet 
"scents"  the  world,  smells  it  out,  as  a  dog  locates 
game.  A  still  stronger  expression  is  used  in  Christ- 
mas-Eve, where  the  poets  "pried"  at  life,  turned  up 
its  surface  in  order  to  disclose  all  its  hidden  treas- 
ures of  meaning. 

"TRANSCENDENTALISM:    A    POEM    IN 
TWELVE  BOOKS" 

185s 

Stop  playing,  poet!     May  a  brother  speak? 
Tis  you  speak,  that's  your  error.    Song's  our  art: 
Whereas  you  please  to  speak  these  naked  thoughts 
Instead  of  draping  them  in  sights  and  sounds. 
—True  thoughts,  good  thoughts,  thoughts  fit  to  treas- 
ure up! 
But  why  such  long  prolusion  and  display, 
Such  turning  and  adjustment  of  the  harp, 
And  taking  it  upon  your  breast,  at  length, 
Only  to  speak  dry  words  across  its  strings? 
Stark-naked  thought  is  in  request  enough: 
Speak  prose  and  hollo  it  till  Europe  hears! 
The  six-foot  Swiss  tube,  braced  about  with  bark, 
Which   helps   the    hunter's   voice    from    Alp   to   Alp- 
Exchange  our  harp  for  that,— who  hinders  you? 

But  here's  your  fault;  grown  men  want  thought, 
you  think; 
Thought's  what  they  mean  by  verse,  and  seek  in  verse. 
Boys  seek  for  images  and  melody, 


)WNING,S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     53 

Men  must  have  reason — so,  you  aim  at  men. 

Quite  otherwise!    Objects  throng  our  youth,  'tis  true; 

We  see  and  hear  and  do  not  wonder  much : 

If  you  could  tell  us  what  they  mean,  indeed ! 

As  German  Boehme  never  cared  for  plants 

Until  it  happed,  a-walking  in  the  fields, 

He  noticed  all  at  once  that  plants  could  speak, 

Nay,  turned  with  loosened  tongue  to  talk  with  him. 

That  day  the  daisy  had  an  eye  indeed — 

Colloquized  with  the  cowslip  on  such  themes ! 

We  find  them  extant  yet  in  Jacob's  prose. 

But  by  the  time  youth  slips  a  stage  or  two 

While  reading  prose  in  that  tough  book  he  wrote 

(Collating  and  emendating  the  same 

And  settling  on  the  sense  most  to  our  mind), 

We  shut  the  clasps  and  find  life's  summer  past. 

Then,  who  helps  more,  pray,  to  repair  our  loss — 

Another  Boehme  with  a  tougher  book 

And  subtler  meanings  of  what  roses  say, — 

Or  some  stout  Mage  like  him  of  Halberstadt, 

John,  who  made  things  Boehme  wrote  thoughts  about? 

He  with  a  "look  you !"  vents  a  brace  of  rhymes, 

And  in  there  breaks  the  sudden  rose  herself, 

Over  us,  under,  round  us  every  side, 

Nay,  in  and  out  the  tables  and  the  chairs 

And  musty  volumes,  Boehme's  book  and  all, — 

Buries  us  with  a  glory,  young  once  more, 

Pouring  heaven  into  this  shut  house  of  life. 

So  come,  the  harp  back  to  your  heart  again ! 
You  are  a  poem,  though  your  poem's  naught. 
The  best  of  all  you  showed  before,  believe, 
Was  your  own  boy-face  o'er  the  finer  chords 
Bent,  following  the  cherub  at  the  top 
That  points  to  God  with  his  paired  half-moon  wings. 


54  BROWNING 

HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY 

1855 

I  only  knew  one  poet  in  my  life : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did : 
The  cloak,  that  somewhat  shone  and  showed  the  th 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 
He  walked  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cant 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face, 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 
That  leads  nowhither ;  now,  they  breathed  themse 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time: 
You'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 
Against  the  single  window  spared  some  house 
Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work, — 
Or  else  surprise  the  ferrel  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks 
Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 
He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 
The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 


)WNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     55 

If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw; 

If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note; 

Yet  stared  at  nobody, — you  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbour's  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact, 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy, 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew ! 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then  went  home, 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  his  bedroom  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile !  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of    .   .   .   well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little, — such  a  brow 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under ! — clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut  and  coloured  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising  fate? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared 

And  young  C.  got  his  mistress, — was't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favourites  manifold, 

And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month; 

Our  city  gets  new  governors  at  whiles, — 

But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear, 

Notified  to  this  man  about  the  streets 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 


56  BROWNING 

Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?    Frowned  our  Lord, 
Exhorting  when  none  heard — "Beseech  me  not ! 
"Too  far  above  my  people, — beneath  me ! 
"I  set  the  watch, — how  should  the  people  know  ? 
"Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in  mind !" 
Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  two? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least— 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate ! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by  the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise! 
The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 
(Jacynth,  you're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  chees 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 
Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.    Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  h 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  he  was, 
Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times ; 
"  'St— 'St,"  he'd  whisper,  "the  Corregidor !" 
I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turr 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys ; 
We  were  in  error ;  that  was  not  the  man. 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     57 

I'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die, 
And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret-sides 
And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 
With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 
Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 
Thro'  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 
Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 
In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in  mud, 
Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust, — 
And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once ! 
No  further  show  or  need  for  that  old  coat, 
You  are  sure,  for  one  thing !    Bless  us,  all  the  while 
How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I ! 
A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that 
Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse, — could  you? 
Let's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 

In  common  with  all  English  poets — there  is  no 
tception — Browning  loved  nature.  But  he  loved 
uman  nature  so  much  more  that  when  he  contem- 
:ates  natural  objects  he  thinks  of  them  in  terms  of 
ymanity.  This  is  exactly  contrary  to  the  conven- 
onal  method.  Most  poets  and  novelists  describe 
iman  faces  in  terms  of  outdoor  nature :  the  heroine 
is  "stormy  eyes,"  "rainy  eyes/'  her  face  is  swept 
I  "gusts  of  passion/'  and  so  on,  ad  infinitum.  I 
3  not  say  that  Browning's  is  the  better  way ;  I  say 

is  his  way,  because  he  was  obsessed  by  humanity. 
o  take  instances  only  from  his  first  poem : 


58  BROWNING 

Thou  wilt  remember  one  warm  morn  when  winter 
Crept  aged  from  the  earth,  and  spring's  first  breath 
Blew  soft  from  the  moist  hills ;  the  blackthorn  boughs, 
So  dark  in  the  bare  wood,  when  glistening 
In  the  sunshine  were  white  with  coming  buds, 
Like  the  bright  side  of  a  sorrow,  and  the  banks 
Had  violets  opening  from  sleep  like  eyes. 

Autumn  has  come  like  Spring  returned  to  us 
Won  from  her  girlishness. 

.    .    .    the  trees  bend 
O'er  it  as  wild  men  watch  a  sleeping  girl. 

So,  when  Spring  comes 
With  sunshine  back  again  like  an  old  smile. 

I  am  to  sing  whilst  ebbing  day  dies  soft, 
As  a  lean  scholar  dies  worn  o'er  his  book, 
And  in  the  heaven  stars  steal  out  one  by  one 
As  hunted  men  steal  to  their  mountain  watch. 

Browning's  love  for  the  dramatic  was  so  intens< 
that  he  carried  it  into  every  kind  of  poetry  that  h< 
wrote.  Various  classes  of  his  works  he  callec 
Dramas,  Dramatic  Lyrics,  Dramatic  Romances 
Dramatic  Idyls,  Dramatis  Personcc.  In  one  of  he] 
prefaces,  Elizabeth  Barrett  had  employed — for  th< 
first  time  in  English  literature,  I  think — the  terrr 
Dramatic  Lyric.  This  naturally  appealed  to  Brown- 
ing, and  he  gave  the  title  in  1842  to  his  first  pub- 
lished collection  of  short  poems.     At  first  blusr. 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     59 

"dramatic  lyric"  sounds  like  a  contradiction  in 
terms,  like  "non-mathematical  algebra."  Drama  is 
the  most  objective  branch  of  poetry,  and  the  lyric 
the  most  subjective:  but  Browning  was  so  intent 
upon  the  chronicling  of  all  stages  of  life  that  he  car- 
ried the  methods  of  the  drama  into  the  lyric  form, 
of  which  Meeting  at  Night  may  serve  as  an  excellent 
example.  Many  of  his  short  poems  have  the  lyrical 
beauty  of  Shelley  and  Heine;  but  they  all  represent 
the  soul  of  some  historical  or  imaginary  person. 

At  the  very  end  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Brown- 
ing declared  that  human  testimony  was  false,  a  state- 
ment that  will  be  supported  by  any  lawyer  or  judge 
of  much  court  experience.  Human  testimony  being 
worthless,  there  remains  but  one  way  for  the  poet  to 
tell  the  truth  about  humanity,  and  that  is  through  his 
art.  The  poet  should  use  his  skill  not  primarily  with 
the  idea  of  creating  something  beautiful,  but  with 
the  main  purpose  of  expressing  the  actual  truth  con- 
cerning human  life  and  character.  The  highest  art 
is  the  highest  veracity,  and  this  conforms  to  Brown- 
ing's theory  of  poetry.  This  was  his  ideal,  and  by 
adhering  to  this  he  hoped  to  save  his  soul.  Brown- 
ing believed  that  by  living  up  to  our  best  capacity  we 
attained  unto  salvation.  The  man  who  hid  his  talent 
in  the  earth  was  really  a  lost  soul.    Like  many  truly 


60  BROWNING 

great  artists,  Browning  felt  deeply  the  responsibility 
of  his  splendid  endowment.  In  one  of  his  letters  to 
Miss  Barrett,  he  said,  "I  must  write  poetry  and  save 
my  soul."  In  the  last  lines  of  The  Ring  and  the 
Book  we  find  this  thought  repeated: 

So,  British  public,  who  may  like  me  yet, 

(Marry  and  amen!)  learn  one  lesson  hence 

Of  many  which  whatever  lives  should  teach : 

This  lesson,  that  our  human  speech  is  naught, 

Our  human  testimony  false,  our  fame 

And  human  estimation  words  and  wind. 

Why  take  the  artistic  way  to  prove  so  much? 

Because,  it  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art, 

That  Art  remains  the  one  way  possible 

Of  speaking  truth,  to  minds  like  mine  at  least.  .  .  . 

But  Art, — wherein  man  nowise  speaks  to  men, 

Only  to  mankind, — Art  may  tell  a  truth 

Obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought, 

Nor  wrong  the  thought,  missing  the  mediate  word. 

So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth, 

Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall, — 

So,  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 

Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived, — 

So  write  a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facts, 

Suffice  the  eye  and  save  the  soul  beside. 

And  save  the  soul! 

From  first  to  last  Browning  understood  the  pre- 
vailing criticism  of  his  poetry,  directed  against  its 
so-called  lack  of  musical  rhythm.  He  commented  on 
it  more  than  once.    But  he  answered  it  always  in  the 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY    61 

same  way,  in  Pip  pa  Passes,  in  the  last  stanzas  of 
Pacchiarotto,  and  in  the  Epilogue  to  the  same  vol- 
ume. He  insisted  that  what  the  critics  meant  by 
melody  was  a  childish  jingle  of  rimes  like  Mother 
Goose.  Referring  to  Sordello,  he  makes  the  Second 
Student  in  Pip  pa  Passes  remark,  "Instead  of  cramp 
couplets,  each  like  a  knife  in  your  entrails,  he  should 
write,  says  Bluphocks,  both  classically  and  intelligi- 
bly. .  .  .  One  strip  Cools  your  lip.  .  .  . 
One  bottle  Clears  your  throttle."  In  Pacchiarotto, 
he  calls  to  critics : 

And,  what  with  your  rattling  and  tinkling, 

Who  knows  but  you  give  me  an  inkling 

How  music  sounds,  thanks  to  the  jangle 

Of  regular  drum  and  triangle? 

Whereby,  tap-tap,  chink-chink,  'tis  proven 

I  break  rule  as  bad  as  Beethoven. 

"That  chord  now — a  groan  or  a  grunt  is't? 

Schumann's  self  was  no  worse  contrapuntist. 

No  ear!  or  if  ear,  so  tough-gristled — 

He  thought  that  he  sung  while  he  whistled !" 

Browning  felt  that  there  was  at  times  a  certain 
virtue  in  mere  roughness :  that  there  were  ideas, 
which,  if  expressed  in  harsh  phrase,  would  make  a 
deeper  impression,  and  so  be  longer  remembered. 
The  opening  stanza  of  The  Twins  was  meant  to 
emphasise  this  point : 


62  BROWNING 

Grand  rough  old  Martin  Luther 
Bloomed  fables — flowers  on  furze, 
The  better  the  uncouther : 
Do  roses  stick  like  burrs? 

Such  a  theory  may  help  to  explain  the  powerful 
line  in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra: 

[rks  care  the  cropfull  bird?     Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed 
beast? 

Of  course  Browning's  theory  of  poetry  does  not 
justify  or  explain  all  the  unmusical  passages  in  his 
works.  He  felt,  as  every  poet  must,  the  difficulty  of 
articulation — the  disparity  between  his  ideas  and  the 
verbal  form  he  was  able  to  give  them.  Browning 
lad  his  trials  in  composition,  and  he  placed  in  the 
nouth  of  the  Pope  his  own  ardent  hope  that  in  the 
lext  world  there  will  be  some  means  of  communica- 
:ion  better  than  language : 

Expect  nor  question  nor  reply 
At  what  we  figure  as  God's  judgment  bar ! 
None  of  this  vile  way  by  the  barren  words 
Which,  more  than  any  deed,  characterise 
Man  as  made  subject  to  a  curse:  no  speech. 

Over  and  over  again,  however,  Browning  declared 
:hat  poetry  should  not  be  all  sweetness.  Flowers 
growing  naturally  here  and  there  in  a  pasture  are 
nuch  more  attractive  than  cut  and  gathered  into  a 


BROWNING'S  THEORY  OF  POETRY  6. 

nosegay.  As  Luther's  long  disquisitions  are  adornec 
with  pretty  fables,  that  bloom  like  flowers  on  furze 
so,  in  the  Epilogue  to  Pacchiarotto,  Browning  in 
sisted  that  the  wide  fields  of  his  verse  are  not  with 
out  cowslips : 

And,  friends,  beyond  dispute 

I  too  have  the  cowslips  dewy  and  dear. 

Punctual  as  Springtide  forth  peep  they: 

But  I  ought  to  pluck  and  impound  them,  eh? 
Not  let  them  alone,  but  deftly  shear 

And  shred  and  reduce  to — what  may  suit 

Children,  beyond  dispute? 

Now,  there  are  many  law-abiding  and  transpar 
ently  honest  persons  who  prefer  anthologies  t( 
"works,"  wrho  love  to  read  tiny  volumes  prettih 
bound,  called  "Beauties  of  Ruskin,"  and  who  hav< 
substituted  for  the  out-of- fashion  "Daily  Food' 
books,  painted  bits  of  cardboard  with  sweet  saying' 
culled  from  popular  idols  of  the  day,  with  whicr 
they  embellish  the  walls  of  their  offices  and  bed- 
rooms, in  the  hope  that  they  may  hoist  themselves 
into  a  more  hallowed  frame  of  mind.  This  is  the 
class — always  with  us,  though  more  prosperous  thar 
the  poor — who  prefer  a  cut  bouquet  to  the  natural 
flowers  in  wood  and  meadow,  and  for  whose  com- 
fort and  convenience  Browning  declined  to  work, 
His  poetry  is  too  stiff  for  these  readers,  partly  be- 


*  BROWNING 

tuse  they  start  with  a  preconceived  notion  of  the 
mction  of  poetry.  Instead  of  being  charmed,  their 
rst  sensation  is  a  shock.  They  honestly  believe 
tat  the  attitude  of  the  mind  in  apprehending  poetry 
lould  be  passive,  not  active :  is  not  the  poet  a  public 
itertainer  ?  Did  we  not  buy  the  book  with  the  ex- 
xtation  of  receiving  immediate  pleasure?  The  an- 
cipated  delight  of  many  persons  when  they  open  a 
Dlume  of  poems  is  almost  physical,  as  it  is  when 
Ley  settle  themselves  to  hear  certain  kinds  of  music, 
hey  feel  presumably  as  a  comfortable  cat  does 
hen  her  fur  is  fittingly  stroked.  The  torture  that 
tany  listeners  suffered  when  they  heard  Wagner 
:>r  the  first  time  was  not  imaginary,  it  was  real; 
Oh,  if  somebody  would  only  play  a  tune!"  Yet 
/agner  converted  thousands  of  these  quondam  suf- 
fers, and  conquered  them  without  making  any 
)mpromises.  He  simply  enlarged  their  conception 
f  what  opera-music  might  mean.  He  gave  them 
ew  sources  of  happiness  without  robbing  them  of 
le  old.  For  my  part,  although  I  prefer  Wagner's 
)  all  other  operas,  I  keenly  enjoy  Mozart's  Don 
iovanni,  Charpentier's  Louise,  Gounod's  Faust, 
trauss's  Salome,  Verdi's  Aida,  and  I  never  miss  an 
pportunity  to  hear  Gilbert  and  Sullivan.     Almost 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     65 

all  famous  operas  have  something  good  in  them  ex- 
cept the  works  of  Meyerbeer. 

We  all  have  moods  when  the  mind  wishes  to  be 
lulled,  soothed,  charmed,  hypnotised  with  agreeable 
melody,  and  in  English  literature  we  fortunately 
have  many  great  poets  who  can  perform  this  service. 

That  strain  again !  it  had  a  dying  fall. 

Tennyson  was  a  veritable  magician,  who  charmed 
with  his  genius  hundreds  and  thousands  of  people. 
No  arduous  mental  effort  is  necessary  for  the  en- 
joyment of  his  verse,  which  is  one  reason  why  he  is 
and  will  remain  a  popular  poet.  Browning  can  not 
be  taken  in  just  that  way,  any  more  than  a  man 
completely  exhausted  with  the  day's  work  can  enjoy 
Siegfried  or  Hedda  Gabler.  Active,  constant  cere- 
bration on  the  part  of  the  listener  or  the  reader  is 
essential.  This  excludes  at  once  a  considerable  num- 
ber to  whom  the  effort  of  real  thinking  is  as  strange 
as  it  is  oppressive.  Browning  is  a  stimulus,  not  a 
sedative ;  his  poetry  is  like  an  electric  current  which 
naturally  fails  to  affect  those  who  are  non-conduct- 
ors of  poetry.  As  one  of  my  undergraduate  stu- 
dents tersely  expressed  it,  "Tennyson  soothes  our 
senses  :  Browning  stimulates  our  thoughts."    Poetry 


66  BROWNING 

is  in  some  ways  like  medicine.  Tennyson  quiets  the 
nerves:  Browning  is  a  tonic:  some  have  found 
Thomson's  Seasons  invaluable  for  insomnia:  the 
poetry  of  Swift  is  an  excellent  emetic. 

I  do  not  quite  understand  the  intense  anger  of 
many  critics  and  readers  over  the  eternal  question  of 
Browning's  obscurity.  They  have  been  harping  on 
this  theme  for  eighty  years  and  show  no  more  sign 
of  exhaustion  than  a  dog  barking  in  the  night.  Why 
do  the  heathen  rage  ?  Why  do  they  not  let  Brown- 
ing alone,  and  read  somebody  they  can  understand  ? 
Browning  is  still  gravely  rebuked  by  many  critics 
for  having  written  Sordello.  Over  and  over  again 
we  have  been  informed  that  the  publication  of  this 
poem  shattered  his  reputation  for  twenty-five  years. 
Well,  what  of  it?  what  difference  does  it  make  now? 
He  seems  to  have  successfully  survived  it.  This 
huge  work,  which  William  Sharp  called  "that  co- 
lossal derelict  upon  the  ocean  of  poetry,"  is  des- 
tined to  have  an  immortality  all  its  own.  From  one 
point  of  view,  we  ought  to  be  grateful  for  its  publi- 
cation. It  has  aroused  inextinguishable  laughter 
among  the  blessed  gods.  It  is  not  witty  in  itself,  but 
it  is  the  cause  of  wit  in  many.  Douglas  Jerrold  and 
Carlyle  commented  delightfully  on  it;  even  Tenny- 
son succeeded  for  once  in  saying  something  funny. 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     67 

One  critic  called  it  a  fine  house  in  which  the  archi- 
tect had  forgotten  to  put  any  stairs.  Another  called 
it  a  huge  boil  in  which  all  the  impurities  in  Brown- 
ing's system  came  to  an  impressive  head,  after  which 
the  patient,  pure  from  poison,  succeeded  in  writing 
the  clear  and  beautiful  Pip  pa  Passes.  Besides  in- 
numerable parodies  that  have  been  forgotten, 
Browning's  obscurity  was  the  impenetrable  flint  that 
struck  two  mental  flashes  that  belong  to  literature, 
Calverley's  Cock  and  the  Bull,  and  Swinburne's  John 
Jones,  a  brilliant  exposition  of  the  perversities  in 
that  tedious  poem,  James  Lee's  Wife.  Not  long  ago, 
a  young  man  sat  by  the  lamplight,  studying  a  thick 
volume  with  evident  discomfort.  To  the  friend  who 
asked  what  he  was  doing,  he  replied,  "I'm  studying 
Browning." 

"Why,  no,  you  idiot,  that  isn't  Browning :  you  are 
reading  the  index  of  first  lines  to  the  works  of 
Wordsworth." 

"By  Jove !  you're  right !  But  it  sounds  just  like 
Browning." 

Browning's  place  in  English  literature  is  not  with 
the  great  verse-sculptors,  not  with  the  masters  of 
imperishable  beauty  of  form;  he  does  not  belong  to 
the  glorious  company  where  reign  supreme  Milton, 
Keats,  and  Tennyson;  his  place  is  rather  with  the 


68  BROWNING 

Interpreters  of  Life,  with  the  poets  who  use  their 
art  to  express  the  shine  and  shade  of  life's  tragi- 
comedy— to  whom  the  base,  the  trivial,  the  frivo- 
lous, the  grotesque,  the  absurd  seem  worth  reporting 
along  with  the  pure,  the  noble,  and  the  sublime, 
since  all  these  elements  are  alike  human.  In  this 
wide  field  of  art,  with  the  exception  of  Shakespeare, 
who  is  the  exception  to  everything,  the  first-born 
and  the  last-born  of  all  the  great  English  poets  know 
no  equal  in  the  five  centuries  that  rolled  between 
them.  The  first  person  to  say  this  publicly  was  him- 
self a  poet  and  a  devoted  student  of  Form — Walter 
Savage  Landor.  When  he  said  it,  people  thought  it 
was  mere  hyperbole,  the  stressed  language  of  com- 
pliment ;  but  we  know  now  that  Landor' s  words  are 
as  true  as  they  are  beautiful : 

Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  brief  for  thee, 
Browning !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 
No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  enquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse. 

Many  critics  who  are  now  dead,  and  some  that 
are  yet  alive,  have  predicted  the  speedy  death  of 
Browning's  reputation.  This  prediction  seems  to 
afford  a  certain  class  of  critics  a  calm  and  holy  joy. 
Some  years  ago,  Mr.  James  Douglas,  of  London, 


BROWNING'S    THEORY    OF    POETRY     69 

solemnly  announced  the  approaching  demise. 
Browning  will  die,  said  he,  even  as  Donne  is  dead, 
and  for  the  same  reason.  But  Donne  is  not  quite 
dead. 

I  must  survive  a  thing  ere  know  it  dead. 

I  think  Donne  will  survive  all  our  contemporary 
criticisms  about  him.  Ben  Jonson  said  that  Donne, 
for  not  keeping  of  accent,  deserved  hanging.  But 
Donne,  though  he  forgot  to  keep  step  with  the  proces- 
sion of  poets,  has  survived  many  poets  who  tripped 
a  regular  measure.  He  has  survived  even  Pope's 
"versification"  of  his  poems,  one  of  the  most  uncon- 
sciously humorous  things  in  English  literature.  Ac- 
cent alone  will  not  keep  a  man  alive.  Which  poet 
of  these  latter  days  stands  the  better  chance  to  re- 
main, Francis  Thompson,  whose  spiritual  flame  oc- 
casionally burned  up  accent,  or  Alfred  Austin,  who 
studied  to  preserve  accent  through  a  long  life?  Ac- 
cent is  indeed  important;  but  raiment  is  of  little 
value  unless  it  clothes  a  living  body.  Does  Brown- 
ing's best  poetry  smell  of  mortality?  Nearly  every 
new  novel  I  read  in  English  has  quotations  from 
Browning  without  the  marks,  sure  evidence  that  the 
author  has  read  him  and  assumes  that  the  readers 
of  the  novel    have    a    like    acquaintance.     When 


70  BROWNING 

Maeterlinck  wrote  his  famous  play,  Monna  Vanna, 
he  took  one  of  the  scenes  directly  from  Browning's 
Luria :  he  said  that  he  had  been  inspired  by  Brown- 
ing :  that  Browning  is  one  of  the  greatest  poets  that 
England  has  ever  produced:  that  to  take  a  scene 
from  him  is  a  kind  of  public  homage,  such  as  we 
pay  to  Homer,  ^Eschylus,  and  Shakespeare. 

With  the  exception  of  Shakespeare,  any  other 
English  poet  could  now  be  spared  more  easily  than 
Browning.  For,  owing  to  his  aim  in  poetry,  and  his 
success  in  attaining  it,  he  gave  us  much  vital  truth 
and  beauty  that  we  should  seek  elsewhere  in  vain; 
and,  as  he  said  in  the  Epilogue  to  Pacchiarotto,  the 
strong,  heady  wine  of  his  verse  may  become  sweet 
in  process  of  time. 


Ill 


LYRICS 

A  PURE  lyric,  as  distinguished  from  other  kinds 
^  of  poetry,  narrative,  descriptive,  epic,  dra- 
matic, should  have  three  characteristic  qualities,  im- 
mediately evident  on  the  first  reading :  it  should  be 
short,  it  should  be  melodious,  it  should  express  only 
one  mood.  A  very  long  lyrical  poem  has  never  been 
written,  and  probably  could  not  be :  a  lyric  without 
fluent  melody  is  unthinkable :  and  a  poem  represent- 
ing a  great  variety  of  moods  would  more  properly 
be  classed  as  descriptive  or  dramatic  than  lyrical. 
Examples  of  the  perfect  lyric  in  nineteenth  cen- 
tury English  poetry  are  Shelley's  /  Arise  From 
Dreams  of  Thee:  Keats's  Bright  Star:  Byron's  She 
Walks  in  Beauty:  Tennyson's  Break,  Break,  Break. 
In  each  one  of  these  notable  illustrations  the  poem 
is  a  brief  song  of  passion,  representing  the  mood  of 
the  singer  at  that  moment. 

There  are  innumerable  lyrical  passages  in  Brown- 
ing's long  poems,  and  in  his  dramatic  monologues : 

71 


72  BROWNING 

there  are  splendid  outbursts  of  melody.  He  could 
not  be  ranked  among  the  greatest  English  poets  if 
he  had  not  been  one  of  our  greatest  singers.  But 
we  do  not  go  to  Browning  primarily  for  song.  He 
is  not  one  of  our  greatest  lyrical  poets.  It  is  certain, 
however,  that  he  could  have  been  had  he  chosen  to 
be.  He  wrote  a  sufficient  number  of  pure  lyrics  to 
prove  his  quality  and  capacity.  But  he  was  so  much 
more  deeply  interested  in  the  study  of  the  soul  than 
in  the  mere  expression  of  beauty — he  was  so  essen- 
tially, from  Pauline  to  Asolando — a  dramatic  poet, 
that  his  great  contribution  to  literature  is  seen  in 
profound  and  subtle  interpretations  of  the  human 
heart.  It  is  fortunate  that  he  made  the  soul  his 
specialty,  because  English  literature  is  wonderfully 
rich  in  song :  there  are  many  poets  who  can  thrill  us 
with  music:  but  there  is  only  one  Browning,  and 
there  is  no  group  of  writers  in  any  literature  among 
which  he  can  be  classed. 

Browning's  dramatic  lyrics  differ  from  Tenny- 
son's short  poems  as  the  lyrics  of  Donne  differed 
from  those  of  Campion;  but  Browning  occasionally 
tried  his  hand  at  the  composition  of  a  pure  lyric, 
as  if  to  say,  "You  see  I  can  write  like  this  when  I 
choose."  Therein  lies  his  real  superiority  to  almost 
all  other  English  poets :  he  could  do  their  work,  but 


LYRICS  73 

they  could  not  do  his.  It  is  significant  that  his  first 
poem,  Pauline,  should  have  deeply  impressed  two 
men  of  precisely  opposite  types  of  mind.  These  two 
were  John  Stuart  Mill  and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 
— their  very  names  illustrating  beautifully  the  dif- 
ference in  their  mental  tastes  and  powers.  Carlyle 
called  Mill  a  "logic-chopping  engine,"  because  his 
intellectual  processes  were  so  methodical,  systematic, 
hard-headed:  Rossetti  was  a  master  of  color  and 
harmony.  Yet  Mill  found  in  Pauline  the  workings 
of  a  powerful  mind :  and  Rossetti's  sensitive  tem- 
perament was  charmed  with  the  wonderful  pictures 
and  lovely  melodies  it  contained. 

I  like  to  think  that  Mill  read,  paused,  re-read  and 
meditated  on  this  passage  : 

I  am  made  up  of  an  intensest  life, 

Of  a  most  clear  idea  of  consciousness 

Of  self,  distinct  from  all  its  qualities, 

From  all  affections,  passions,  feelings,  powers ; 

And  thus  far  it  exists,  if  tracked,  in  all : 

But  linked,  in  me,  to  self-supremacy 

Existing  as  a  centre  to  all  things, 

Most  potent  to  create  and  rule  and  call 

Upon  all  things  to  minister  to  it; 

And  to  a  principle  of  restlessness 

Which  would  be  all,  have,  see,  know,  taste,  feel,  all — 

This  is  myself ;  and  I  should  thus  have  been 

Though  gifted  lower  than  the  meanest  soul. 


74  BROWNING 

I  like  to  think  that  Rossetti  was  thrilled  with  this 

picture  of  Andromeda : 

Andromeda ! 
And  she  is  with  me :  years  roll,  I  shall  change, 
But  change  can  touch  her  not — so  beautiful 
With  her  fixed  eyes,  earnest  and  still,  and  hair 
Lifted  and  spread  by  the  salt-sweeping  breeze, 
And  one  red  beam,  all  the  storm  leaves  in  heaven, 
Resting  upon  her  eyes  and  hair,  such  hair, 
As  she  awaits  the  snake  on  the  wet  beach 
By  the  dark  rock  and  the  white  wave  just  breaking 
At  her  feet;  quite  naked  and  alone;  a  thing 
I  doubt  not,  nor  fear  for,  secure  some  god 
To  save  will  come  in  thunder  from  the  stars. 

It  is  rather  singular,  in  view  of  the  great  vogue 
of  the  sonnet  in  the  nineteenth  century,  that  neither 
Tennyson  nor  Browning  should  have  succeeded  in 
this  form.  The  two  men  wrote  very  few  sonnets — 
Browning  fewer  than  Tennyson — and  neither  ever 
wrote  a  great  one.  Longfellow,  so  inferior  in  most 
respects  to  his  two  great  English  contemporaries, 
was  an  incomparably  superior  sonnetteer.  Tenny- 
son's sonnets  are  all  mediocre:  Browning  did  not 
publish  a  single  sonnet  in  the  final  complete  edition 
of  his  works.  He  did  however  print  a  very  few  on 
special  occasions,  and  when  he  was  twenty-two  years 
old,  between  the  composition  of  Pauline  and  Para- 
celsus, there  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Repository  a 
sonnet  beginning 


LYRICS  75 

Eyes  calm  beside  thee  (Lady,  could'st  thou  know!) 

which  is  the  best  example  from  his  pen  that  has  been 
preserved.  Although  he  did  not  think  much  of  it 
in  later  years,  it  has  been  frequently  reprinted,  and 
is  worth  keeping;  both  for  the  ardor  of  its  passion, 
and  because  it  is  extraordinary  that  he  should  have 
begun  so  very  early  in  his  career  a  form  of  verse 
that  he  practically  abandoned.  This  sonnet  may 
have  been  addressed  to  a  purely  imaginary  ideal; 
but  it  is  possible  that  the  young  man  had  in  mind 
Eliza  Flower,  for  whom  he  certainly  had  a  boy- 
ish love,  and  who  was  probably  the  original  of 
Pauline.  She  and  her  sister,  Sarah  Flower,  the  au- 
thor of  Nearer j  My  God,  to  Thee,  were  both  older 
than  Browning,  and  both  his  intimate  friends  dur- 
ing the  period  of  his  adolescence. 

SONNET 

1834 

Eyes  calm  beside  thee  (Lady,  could'st  thou  know!) 
May  turn  away  thick  with  fast-gathering  tears  : 
I  glance  not  where  all  gaze :  thrilling  and  low 
Their  passionate  praises  reach  thee — my  cheek  wears 
Alone  no  wonder  when  thou  passest  by; 
Thy  tremulous  lids  bent  and  suffused  reply 
To  the  irrepressible  homage  which  doth  glow 
On  every  lip  but  mine :  if  in  thine  ears 
Their  accents  linger — and  thou  dost  recall 
Me  as  I  stood,  still,  guarded,  very  pale, 


76  BROWNING 

Beside  each  votarist  whose  lighted  brow 
Wore  worship  like  an  aureole,  "O'er  them  all 
My  beauty,"  thou  wilt  murmur,  "did  prevail 
Save  that  one  only :" — Lady,  could'st  thou  know ! 

It  is  perhaps  characteristic  of  Browning  that  this 
early  sonnet  should  be  so  irregular  in  its  rime- 
scheme. 

The  songs  in  Paracelsus  (1835)  prove  that 
Browning  was  a  genuine  lyrical  poet:  the  best  of 
them,  Over  the  Sea  Our  Galleys  Went,  is  more  prop- 
erly a  dramatic  monologue :  but  the  song  in  the  sec- 
ond act,  by  Aprile  (who  I  think  stands  for  Keats) 
is  a  pure  lyric,  and  so  are  the  two  stanzas  sung  by 
Paracelsus  in  the  fourth  act.  There  are  lines  here 
which  suggest  something  of  the  drowsy  music  of 
Tennyson's  Lotos-Eaters,  published  in  1832: 

.    .     .     .     such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island-gain. 

SONGS  FROM  PARACELSUS 

1835 

(Aprile  sings) 

I  hear  a  voice,  perchance  I  heard 
Long  ago,  but  all  too  low, 
So  that  scarce  a  care  it  stirred 
If  the  voice  were  real  or  no : 


LYRICS  77 

I  heard  it  in  my  youth  when  first 

The  waters  of  my  life  outburst: 

But,  now  their  stream  ebbs  faint,  I  hear 

That  voice,  still  low,  but  fatal-clear — 

As  if  all  poets,  God  ever  meant 

Should  save  the  world,  and  therefore  lent 

Great  gifts  to,  but  who,  proud,  refused 

To  do  his  work,  or  lightly  used 

Those  gifts,  or  failed  through  weak  endeavour, 

So,  mourn  cast  off  by  him  for  ever, — 

As  if  these  leaned  in  airy  ring 

To  take  me ;  this  the  song  they  sing. 

"Lost,  lost  1  yet  come, 
With  our  wan  troop  make  thy  home. 
Come,  come !  for  we 
Will  not  breathe,  so  much  as  breathe 
Reproach  to  thee, 

Knowing  what  thou  sink'st  beneath. 
So  sank  we  in  those  old  years, 
We  who  bid  thee,  come !  thou  last 
Who,  living  yet,  hast  life  o'erpast. 
And  altogether  we,  thy  peers, 
Will  pardon  crave  for  thee,  the  last 
Whose  trial  is  done,  whose  lot  is  cast 
With  those  who  watch  but  work  no  more, 
Who  gaze  on  life  but  live  no  more. 
Yet  we  trusted  thou  shouldst  speak 
The  message  which  our  lips,  too  weak, 
Refused  to  utter, — shouldst  redeem 
Our  fault :  such  trust,  and  all  a  dream  I 
Yet  we  chose  thee  a  birthplace 
Where  the  richness  ran  to  flowers : 
Couldst  not  sing  one  song  for  grace? 
Not  make  one  blossom  man's  and  ours? 


78  BROWNING 

Must  one  more  recreant  to  his  race 

Die  with  unexerted  powers, 

And  join  us,  leaving  as  he  found 

The  world,  he  was  to  loosen,  bound? 

Anguish !  ever  and  for  ever ; 

Still  beginning,  ending  never. 

Yet,  lost  and  last  one,  come  I 

How  couldst  understand,  alas, 

What  our  pale  ghosts  strove  to  say, 

As  their  shades  did  glance  and  pass 

Before  thee  night  and  day? 

Thou  wast  blind  as  we  were  dumb : 

Once  more,  therefore,  come,  O  come ! 

How  should  we  clothe,  how  arm  the  spirit 

Shall  next  thy  post  of  life  inherit — 

How  guard  him  from  thy  speedy  ruin  ? 

Tell  us  of  thy  sad  undoing 

Here,  where  we  sit,  ever  pursuing 

Our  weary  task,  ever  renewing 

Sharp  sorrow,  far  from  God  who  gave 

Our  powers,  and  man  they  could  not  save  P 

(Paracelsus  sings) 
Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair :  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island-gain. 

And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 
Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 

Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled ; 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 


LYRICS  79 

From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 

(Song  by  Festus) 

Thus  the  Mayne  glideth 
Where  my  Love  abideth. 
Sleep's  no  softer:  it  proceeds 
On  through  lawns,  on  through  meads, 
On  and  on,  whate'er  befall, 
Meandering  and  musical, 
Though  the  niggard  pasturage 
Bears  not  on  its  shaven  ledge 
Aught  but  weeds  and  waving  grasses 
To  view  the  river  as  it  passes, 
Save  here  and  there  a  scanty  patch 
Of  primroses  too  faint  to  catch 
A  weary  bee. 

And  scarce  it  pushes 
Its  gentle  way  through  strangling  rushes 
Where  the  glossy  kingfisher 
Flutters  when  noon-heats  are  near, 
Glad  the  shelving  banks  to  shun, 
Red  and  steaming  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  shrew-mouse  with  pale  throat 
Burrows,  and  the  speckled  stoat; 
Where  the  quick  sandpipers  flit 
In  and  out  the  marl  and  grit 
That  seems  to  breed  them,  brown  as  they: 
Nought  disturbs  its  quiet  way, 
Save  some  lazy  stork  that  springs, 
Trailing  it  with  legs  and  wings, 
Whom  the  shy  fox  from  the  hill 
Rouses,  creep  he  ne'er  so  still. 


80  BROWNING 

The  songs  in  Pip  pa  Passes  (1841)  are  all  ex- 
quisite works  of  art.  The  one  on  the  King  had  been 
printed  in  the  Monthly  Repository  in  1835  :  the  oth- 
ers appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the  published 
drama.  All  of  them  are  vitally  connected  with  the 
action  of  the  plot,  differing  in  this  respect  from  the 
Elizabethan  custom  of  simple  interpolation.  The 
song  sung  in  the  early  morning  by  the  girl  in  her 
chamber 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God 

contains  the  philosophy  of  the  play — human  lives 
are  inextricably  intertwined,  and  all  are  dependent 
on  the  will  of  God.  No  individual  can  separate  him- 
self either  from  other  men  and  women,  or  can 
sever  the  connection  between  himself  and  his  Father 
in  Heaven.  The  first  stanza  repeats  the  teaching 
of  Milton  in  the  sonnet  on  his  blindness :  the  second 
is  more  definitely  connected  with  Pippa's  profes- 
sional work. 

Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life, 

refers  to  her  daily  duty  as  a  girl  in  the  silk-mill, 
for  she  naturally  thinks  of  the  complexity  of  life 
as  a  tangled  skein. 


LYRICS  81 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God : 

If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work — God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  "a  small  event !"    Why  "small"  ? 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 
A  "great  event,"  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that?    Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed ! 

OTHER  SONGS  FROM  PIPPA  PASSES 
1841 

You'll  love  me  yet ! — and  I  can  tarry 

Your  love's  protracted  growing: 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry, 

From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartful  now :  some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike, 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,  like. 

You'll  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave's  one  violet: 
Your  look? — that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What's  death?    You'll  love  me  yet! 

Overhead  the  tree-tops  meet, 
Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet ; 
There  was  nought  above  me,  nought  below, 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know : 


82  BROWNING 

For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 

— Ay,  and  of  beasts, — but  words,  our  words, 

Only  so  much  more  sweet? 

The  knowledge  of  that  with  my  life  begun. 

But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun, 

And  counted  your  stars,  the  seven  and  one, 

Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand : 

Nay,  I  could  all  but  understand 

Wherefore  through  heaven  the  white  moon  ranges ; 

And  just  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty  changes 

No  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me — 

Suddenly  God  took  me. 

The  most  famous  song  in  the  play,  which  simply 
sings  itself,  is : 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn : 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world ! 

The  last  line  is  unfortunately  very  often  mis- 
quoted 

All's  well  with  the  world ! 

a  remark  never  made  either  by  Pippa  or  by  Brown- 
ing. In  Browning's  philosophy  all  may  be  right  with 
the  world,  and  yet  far  from  well.  Perhaps  it  is  too 
prosaically  minute  to  point  out  in  so  beautiful  a 


LYRICS  83 

poem,  a  scientific  error,  but  at  seven  o'clock  on  the 
first  of  January  in  Asolo  the  sun  is  still  below 
the  horizon. 

MERTOUN'S  SONG  FROM  A  BLOT  IN  THE 
'SCUTCHEON 


1843 


There's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she's  so  purer  than  the 

purest ; 
And  her  noble  heart's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith's  the 

surest : 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth  of 

lustre 
Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the  wild- 
grape  cluster, 
Gush   in   golden-tinted    plenty   down   her   neck's    rose-misted 

marble : 
Then  her  voice's  music    .    .    .    call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the 

bird's  warble ! 
And  this  woman  says,  "My  days  were  sunless  and  my  nights 

were  moonless, 
"Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's  heart's 

outbreak  tuneless, 
"If   you   loved   me  not!"     And    I   who — (ah,    for   words  of 

flame!)  adore  her, 
Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her — 
I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now  her  lattice  takes  me, 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mine,  as  hers  she 

makes  mel 

The  two  lyrics,  Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea  and 
Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad,  were  written  dur- 


84  BROWNING 

ing  Browning's  first  Italian  journey  in  1838;  and  it 
seems  strange  that  he  did  not  print  them  among  the 
Dramatic  Lyrics  of  1842  but  reserved  them  for  the 
Dramatic  Romances  of  1845;  especially  as  he  sub- 
sequently transferred  them  to  the  Lyrics.  They  are 
both  notable  on  account  of  the  strong  feeling  for 
England  which  they  express.  No  great  English 
poet  has  said  so  little  of  England  as  Browning, 
though  his  own  feelings  were  always  keenly  patri- 
otic. Even  in  Pauline,  3.  poem  without  a  country, 
there  occur  the  two  lines 

.    .     .     and  I  cherish  most 
My  love  of  England — how  her  name,  a  word 
Of  hers  in  a  strange  tongue  makes  my  heart  beatl 

The  allusion  to  the  English  thrush  has  given  im- 
mortality to  Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad.  Many 
had  observed  that  the  thrush  sings  a  lilt,  and  immedi- 
ately repeats  it :  but  Browning  was  the  first  to  give 
a  pretty  reason  for  it.  The  thrush  seems  to  say, 
"You  think  that  beautiful  melody  is  an  accident? 
Well,  I  will  show  you  it  is  no  fluke,  I  will  sing  it 
correctly  right  over  again."  Browning  was  not  in 
Italy  in  April — perhaps  he  wrote  the  first  stanza  on 
the  voyage,  as  he  wrote  Home-Thoughts,  from 
the  Sea,  and  added  the  second  stanza  about  May  and 
June  after  he  had  reached  the  country  of  his  quest. 


LYRICS  85 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 
1845 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-west  died  away; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay ; 

Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay; 

In  the  dimmest  North-east  distance  dawned  Gibraltar  grand 
and  gray; 

"Here  and  here  did  England  help  me:  how  can  I  help  Eng- 
land ?" — say, 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise  and  pray, 

While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 
1845 


Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now  ! 

II 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  1 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  1 


86  BROWNING 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 

The  collection  of  poems  called  James  Lee's  Wife, 
published  in  the  Dramatis  Personce  (1864),  seems 
to  me  illustrative  of  Browning's  worst  faults;  it  is 
obscure,  harsh,  and  dull.  But  it  contains  one  line 
lyric  descriptive  of  an  autumn  morning,  a  morning, 
by  the  way,  much  commoner  in  America  during 
autumn  than  anywhere  in  Europe.  The  second 
stanza  is  nobly  ethical  in  its  doctrine  of  love — that 
we  should  not  love  only  those  persons  whom  we  can 
respect,  for  true  love  seeks  no  profit.  It  must  be 
totally  free  from  the  prospect  of  gain.  A  beautiful 
face  inspired  another  lyric  in  this  volume,  and 
Browning  drew  upon  his  memories  of  Correggio  to 
give  the  perfect  tone  to  the  poem. 

FROM  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE 
1864 


Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning !    How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth ; 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet 


LYRICS  87 

II 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you : 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes  1 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above  1 

A  FACE 
1864 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 

Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers ! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 

Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 

For  that  spoils  all:  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staff's 

Burthen  of  honey-coloured  buds  to  kiss 

And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround, 

How  it  should  waver  on  the  pale  gold  ground 

Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts ! 

I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 

Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 

Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb : 

But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 
(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this  sweet  face  by), 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 

Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 


88  BROWNING 

One  of  the  most  original  and  powerful  of  Brown- 
ing's lyrical  pieces  comes  just  where  we  should  least 
expect  it,  at  the  end  of  that  dark,  dreary,  and  all 
but  impenetrable  wilderness  of  verse,  Fifine  at  the 
Fair.  It  serves  as  an  Epilogue,  but  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult and  unprofitable  to  attempt  to  discover  its  con- 
nection with  the  poem  to  which  is  is  appended.  Its 
metre  is  unique  in  Browning,  and  stirs  the  heart 
with  inexpressible  force.  In  music  it  most  closely 
resembles  the  swift  thrilling  roll  of  a  snare  drum, 
and  can  be  read  aloud  in  exact  accord  with  that  in- 
strument. Browning  calls  it  The  Householder,  and 
of  course  it  represents  in  his  own  life  the  antici- 
pated moment  when  the  soul  leaves  its  house  to  unite 
with  its  mate.  Out  of  the  catastrophe  of  death  ap- 
pears a  radiant  vision  which  really  seems  too  good 
to  be  true. 

"What,  and  is  it  realty  you  again  ?"  quoth  I : 
"I  again,  what  else  did  you  expect?"  quoth  She. 

The  man  is  weary  of  his  old  patched  up  body,  now 
no  longer  needed :  weary  of  the  noisy  nuisances  of 
life,  and  the  tiresome  and  futile  gabble  of  humanity: 
resentful,  now  that  his  spirit  has  actually  survived 
death,  when  he  remembers  the  scientific  books  he 
had  read  which  almost  struck  despair  in  him.  He 
petulantly  says, 


LYRICS  89 

"If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here !"  quoth  I : 
"And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there  ?"  quoth  She. 

He  is  for  immediate  departure,  leaving  his  empty 
carcass  where  it  lies;  but  she  reminds  him  of 
the  necessity  for  decent  burial.  Much  is  to  be 
done  before  they  can  begin  to  enjoy  together 
their  new  and  freer  existence.  There  is  the  body 
to  be  buried;  the  obituary  notices  to  be  written 
for  the  papers :  the  parson  and  undertaker  to  be 
summoned:  the  formalities  of  the  funeral:  the  se- 
lection of  a  proper  tombstone,  with  care  for  the 
name  and  accurate  carving  of  the  date  of  death 
thereupon :  and  finally  a  bit  of  verse  in  the  way  of 
final  flourish.  So  these  two  spirits  look  on  with  im- 
patience at  the  funeral  exercises,  at  the  weeping 
friends  left  behind,  and  not  until  the  coffin  is  under 
ground,  are  they  at  liberty  to  depart  from  terrestial 
scenes.  If  we  do  survive  the  death  of  the  body,  with 
what  curious  sensations  must  we  regard  the  sol- 
emn ceremonies  of  its  interment ! 

EPILOGUE  TO  FIFINE 

1872 

The  Householder 

I 

Savage  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone : 
Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's  work: 


90  BROWNING 

Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a  stone : 

Tongue-tied  now,  now  blaspheming  like  a  Turk  ; 

When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call,  cry, 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there  again  were  we ! — 

"What,  and  is  it  really  you  again  ?"  quoth  I : 
"I  again,  what  else  did  you  expect?"  quoth  She. 

II 

"Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old  house — 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned  with  sin  and  shame  I 
Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes  arouse ! 

Let  them — every  devil  of  the  night — lay  claim, 
Make  and  mend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for  me !    Good-bye ! 

God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance  at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcass  in  a  heap !"  quoth  I : 

"Nay,  but  there's  a  decency  required !"  quoth  She. 

Ill 

"Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has  dragged,  days,  nights ! 

All  the  neighbour-talk  with  man  and  maid — such  men ! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street-sounds,  window-sights: 

All  the  worry  of  flapping  door  and  echoing  roof ;  and  then, 
All  the  fancies   .   .   .   Who  were  they  had  leave,  dared  try 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair  in  me? 
If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here !"  quoth  I : 

"And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there?"  quoth  She. 

IV 

"Help  and  get  it  over!    Rc-unitcd  to  his  wife 

(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the  parish-people  know?) 
Lies  M.,  or  N.,  departed  from  this  life, 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year  the  so  and  so. 
What  i' the  way  of  final  flourish?    Prose,  verse?    Try! 

Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  or,  what  is  it  to  be? 
Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease.    Do  end !"  quoth  I : 

"I  end  with — Love  is  all  and  Death  is  nought !"  quoth  She. 


LYRICS  91 

The  same  thought — the  dramatic  contrast  between 
the  free  spirit  and  its  prison-house — is  the  basis  of 
the  two  lyrics  that  serve  as  prologues  to  Pacchiarotto 
and  to  La  Saisiaz.  As  Dryden's  prefaces  are  far 
better  than  his  plays,  so  Browning's  Prologues  to 
Pacchiarotto,  to  La  Saisiaz,  to  The  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic,  to  Jocoseria  are  decidedly  superior  in  poetic 
art  and  beauty  to  the  volumes  they  introduce.  In- 
deed the  prologue  to  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  lyrics  in  the 
English  language. 

PROLOGUE 

1878 

I 

Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across : 

Violets  were  born ! 

II 

Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud 

Splendid,  a  star ! 

Ill 

World — how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out: 

That  was  thy  face ! 


92  BROWNING 

PROLOGUE  TO  PACCHIAROTTO 
1876 

I 

O  the  old  wall  here !    How  I  could  pass 

Life  in  a  long  Midsummer  day, 
My  feet  confined  to  a  plot  of  grass, 

My  eyes  from  a  wall  not  once  away ! 

II 

And  lush  and  lithe  do  the  creepers  clothe 
Yon  wall  I  watch,  with  a  wealth  of  green : 

Its  bald  red  bricks  draped,  nothing  loth, 
In  lappets  of  tangle  they  laugh  between. 

Ill 

Now,  what  is  it  makes  pulsate  the  robe? 

Why  tremble  the  sprays  ?  What  life  o'erbrims 
The  body, — the  house,  no  eye  can  probe, — 

Divined  as,  beneath  a  robe,  the  limbs? 

IV 

And  there  again !    But  my  heart  may  guess 
Who  tripped  behind  ;  and  she  sang  perhaps  : 

So,  the  old  wall  throbbed,  and  its  life's  excess 
Died  out  and  away  in  the  leafy  wraps. 

V 

Wall  upon  wall  are  between  us :  life 
And  song  should  away  from  heart  to  heart. 

I — prison-bird,  with  a  ruddy  strife 
At  breast,  and  a  lip  whence  storm-notes  start — 


LYRICS  93 

VI 

Hold  on,  hope  hard  in  the  subtle  thing 

That's  spirit :  though  cloistered  fast,  soar  free ; 

Account  as  wood,  brick,  stone,  this  ring 
Of  the  rueful  neighbours,  and— forth  to  thee  I 

PROLOGUE  TO  LA  SAISIAZ 

1878 

I 

Good,  to  forgive; 

Best,  to  forget  1 

Living,  we  fret; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  pinion  1 

Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  thee! 

II 

Wander  at  will, 

Day  after  day, — 

Wander  away, 
Wandering  still — 
Soul  that  canst  soar  I 

Body  may  slumber : 

Body  shall  cumber 
Soul-flight  no  more. 

Ill 

Waft  of  soul's  wing! 

What  lies  above? 

Sunshine  and  Love, 
Skyblue  and  Spring! 


94  BROWNING 

Body  hides — where  ? 

Ferns  of  all  feather, 

Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care! 

PROLOGUE  TO  JOCOSERIA 
1883 

Wanting  is — what? 

Summer  redundant, 

Blueness  abundant, 

— Where  is  the  blot? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 
— Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Roses  embowering  with  nought  they  embower ! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  comer, 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer ! 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Rose-beauty  above, 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love, 
Grows  love ! 

NEVER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 

1883 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 

And  the  loved  one  all  together ! 
This  path — how  soft  to  pace  ! 

This  May — what  magic  weather ! 
Where  is  the  loved  one's  face? 
In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets  mine, 
But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is  bleak 
Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 


LYRICS  95 

With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 

With  a  hostile  eye  at  my  flushing  cheek, 
Writh  a  malice  that  marks  each  word,  each  sign ! 
O  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 

Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man ! 
Do  I  hold  the  Past 
Thus  firm  and  fast 

Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Thro'  the  magic  of  May  to  herself  indeed ! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers :  we— * 
Oh,  close,  safe,  warm  sleep  I  and  she, 
—I  and  she  I 


IV 

DRAMATIC    LYRICS 

BROWNING'S  poetic  career  extended  from 
1833  to  1889,  nearly  sixty  years  of  fairly 
continuous  composition.  We  may  make  a  three- 
fold division:  first,  the  thirteen  years  before  his 
marriage  in  1846;  second,  the  fifteen  years  of  mar- 
ried life,  closing  in  1861 ;  third,  the  remaining  twen- 
ty-eight years.  During  the  first  period  he  published 
twelve  works;  during  the  second,  two;  during  the 
third,  eighteen.  The  fact  that  so  little  was  pub- 
lished during  the  years  when  his  wife  was  alive  may 
be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  condition  of 
her  health  required  his  constant  care,  and  that  after 
the  total  failure  of  Men  and  Women  (1855)  to  at- 
tract any  popular  attention,  Browning  for  some  time 
spent  most  of  his  energy  in  clay-modelling,  giving  up 
poetry  altogether.  Not  long  before  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Browning,  he  was  busy  writing  Prince  Hohen- 
stiel-Schwangau,  although  he  did  not  publish  it  un- 
til the  right  moment,  which  came  in  1871.     After 

96 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  97, 

the  appearance  of  Dramatis  Persona  (1864),  and 
The  Ring  and  the  Book  (1868-9),  Browning's  fame 
spread  like  a  prairie  fire;  and  it  was  quite  natural 
that  his  immense  reputation  was  a  sharp  spur  to 
composition.  One  is  more  ready  to  speak  when  one 
is  sure  of  an  audience.  Capricious  destiny,  how- 
ever, willed  that  the  books  which  sold  the  fastest 
after  publication,  were,  with  few  exceptions,  the 
least  interesting  and  valuable  of  all  the  poet's  per- 
formances. Perhaps  he  did  not  take  so  much  care 
now  that  his  fame  was  assured ;  perhaps  the  fires  in 
his  own  mind  were  dying;  perhaps  the  loss  of  his 
wife  robbed  him  of  necessary  inspiration,  as  it  cer- 
tainly robbed  him  of  the  best  critic  he  ever  had,  and 
the  only  one  to  whom  he  paid  any  serious  attention. 
When  we  remember  that  some  of  the  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances, Luria,  A  Soul's  Tragedy,  Christmas-Eve, 
Men  and  Women,  and  some  of  the  Dramatis  Per- 
sonce  were  read  by  her  in  manuscript,  and  that  The 
Ring  and  the  Book  was  written  in  the  shadow  of 
her  influence,  we  begin  to  realise  how  much  she 
helped  him.  Their  love-letters  during  the  months 
that  preceded  their  marriage  indicate  the  excellence 
of  her  judgment,  her  profound  and  sympathetic 
understanding  of  his  genius  and  his  willingness  to 
listen  to  her  advice.     He  did  not  intend  to  publish 


98  BROWNING 

A  Soul's  Tragedy  at  all,  though  it  is  one  of  his  most 
subtle  and  interesting  dramas,  and  only  did  so  at  her 
request;  part  of  the  manuscript  of  Christmas-Eve 
is  in  her  handwriting. 

It  is  worth  remembering  too  that  in  later  years 
Browning  hated  to  write  poetry,  and  nothing  but  a 
sense  of  duty  kept  him  during  the  long  mornings  at 
his  desk.  He  felt  the  responsibility  of  genius  with- 
out its  inspiration. 

Browning  has  given  a  little  trouble  to  bibliogra- 
phers by  redistributing  the  poems  originally  pub- 
lished in  the  three  works,  Dramatic  Lyrics  (1842), 
Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics  (1845),  and  Men 
and  Women  (1855).  The  Dramatic  Lyrics  at  first 
contained  sixteen  pieces;  the  Dramatic  Romances 
and  Lyrics  twenty-three;  the  Men  and  Women  fifty- 
one.  In  the  final  arrangement  the  first  of  these  in- 
cluded fifty;  the  second,  called  simply  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances, twenty-five;  whilst  the  last  was  reduced  to 
thirteen.  He  also  changed  the  titles  of  many  of  the 
poems,  revised  the  text  somewhat,  classified  two  sep- 
arate poems  under  one  title,  Claret  and  Tokay,  and 
Here's  to  Nelson's  Memory,  under  the  heading  Na- 
tionality in  Drinks,  and  united  the  two  sections  of 
Saul  in  one  poem.  It  is  notable  that  he  omitted  not 
one,  and  indeed  it  is  remarkable  that  with  the  excep- 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  99 

tion  of  The  Boy  and  the  Angel,  A  Lover's  Quarrel, 
Mesmerism,  and  Another  Way  of  Love,  every  poem 
in  the  long  list  has  the  indubitable  touch  of  genius; 
and  even  these  four  are  not  the  worst  of  Brown- 
ing's compositions. 

It  would  have  seemed  to  us  perhaps  more  fitting 
if  Browning  had  grouped  the  contents  of  all  three 
works  under  the  one  heading  Men  and  Women;  for 
that  would  fairly  represent  the  sole  subject  of  his 
efforts.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  the  title  was  too  gen- 
eral, and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  apply  equally 
well  to  his  complete  poetical  works.  I  think,  how- 
ever, that  he  especially  loved  the  appellation  Dra- 
matic Lyrics,  for  he  put  over  half  of  the  poems 
finally  under  that  category.  The  word  "dramatic" 
obsessed  Browning. 

What  is  a  dramatic  lyric  ?  When  Tennyson  pub- 
lished in  1842  his  Ulysses,  a  Yankee  farmer  in 
America  made  in  one  sentence  three  remarks  about 
it:  a  statement  and  two  prophecies.  He  said  that 
Ulysses  belonged  to  a  high  class  of  poetry,  destined 
to  be  the  highest,  and  to  be  more  cultivated  in  the 
next  generation.  Now  Ulysses  is  both  a  dramatic 
lyric  and  a  dramatic  monologue,  and  Tennyson  never 
wrote  anything  better  than  this  poem.  As  it  became 
increasingly  evident  that   the  nineteenth  century 


100  BROWNING 

was  not  going  to  have  a  great  literary  dramatic 
movement  on  the  stage,  while  at  the  same  time  the 
interest  in  human  nature  had  never  been  keener,  the 
poets  began  to  turn  their  attention  to  the  interpreta- 
tion of  humanity  by  the  representation  of  historical 
or  imaginary  individuals  speaking :  and  their  speech 
was  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  human  soul,  in  its 
tragedy  and  comedy,  in  its  sublimity  and  baseness, 
in  its  nobility  and  folly.  Later  in  life  Tennyson 
cultivated  sedulously  the  dramatic  monologue;  and 
Browning,  the  most  original  force  in  literature  that 
the  century  produced,  after  abandoning  his  early 
attempts  at  success  on  the  stage,  devoted  practically 
the  entire  strength  of  his  genius  to  this  form  of 
poetry.    Emerson  was  a  wise  man. 

In  reshuffling  the  short  poems  in  the  three  works 
mentioned  above,  it  is  not  always  easy  to  see  the 
logic  of  the  distribution  and  it  would  be  interesting 
if  we  could  know  the  reasons  that  guided  the  poet  in 
the  classification  of  particular  poems.  Thus  it  is 
perfectly  clear  why  Incident  of  the  French  Camp, 
Count  Gismond,  and  In  a  Gondola  were  taken  from 
the  Dramatic  Lyrics  and  placed  among  the  Dramatic 
Romances;  it  is  easy  to  see  why  The  Lost  Leader 
and  Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad  were  taken  from 
the  Romances  and  placed  among  the  Lyrics;  it  is 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  101 

not  quite  so  clear  why  Rudel  and  Artemis  Prologizes 
were  taken  from  the  Lyrics  and  classed  among  Men 
and  Women,  when  nearly  all  the  poems  originally 
published  under  the  latter  head  were  changed  to 
Lyrics  and  Romances.  In  changing  How  They 
Brought  the  Good  News  from  the  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances, where  it  was  originally  published,  to  Dra- 
matic Lyrics,  Browning  probably  felt  that  the  lyrical 
sound  of  the  piece  was  more  important  than  the 
story:  but  it  really  is  a  dramatic  romance.  Fur- 
thermore, My  Last  Duchess  would  seem  to  fall  more 
properly  under  the  heading  Men  and  Women; 
Browning,  however,  took  it  from  the  Dramatic 
Lyrics  and  placed  it  among  the  Dramatic  Romances. 
In  most  cases,  however,  the  reason  for  the  transfer 
of  individual  poems  is  clear;  and  a  study  of  the 
classification  is  of  positive  assistance  toward  the  un- 
derstanding of  the  piece. 

In  the  eight  volumes  published  from  1841  to  1846, 
which  Browning  called  Bells  and  Pomegranates, 
meaning  simply  Sound  and  Sense,  Meat  and  Music, 
only  two  are  collections  of  short  poems  and  the 
other  six  contain  exclusively  plays — seven  in  all, 
two  being  printed  together  in  the  last  volume. 
Browning  intended  the  whole  Bells  and  Pomegran- 
ates series  to  be  devoted  to  the  drama,  as  one  may  see 


102  •    BROWNING 

by  the  original  preface  to  Pip  pa  Passes:  but  that 
drama  and  the  next  did  not  sell,  and  the  publisher 
suggested  that  he  include  some  short  poems.  This 
explains  why  the  third  volume  is  filled  with  lyrics; 
and  in  a  note  published  with  it,  Browning  half  apol- 
ogised for  what  might  seem  a  departure  from  his 
original  plan,  saying  these  two  might  properly  fall 
under  the  head  of  dramatic  pieces;  being,  although 
lyrical  in  expression,  "always  dramatic  in  principle, 
and  so  many  utterances  of  so  many  imaginary  per- 
sons, not  mine." 

He  means  then  by  a  dramatic  lyric  a  poem  that 
is  short,  that  is  musical,  but  that  is  absolutely  not 
subjective — does  not  express  or  betray  the  writer's 
own  ideas  nor  even  his  mood,  as  is  done  in  Tenny- 
son's ideal  lyric,  Crossing  the  Bar.  A  dramatic 
lyric  is  a  composition  lyrical  in  form,  and  dramatic 
in  subject-matter ;  remembering  all  the  time  that  by 
dramatic  we  do  not  necessarily  mean  anything  ex- 
citing but  simply  something  objective,  something 
entirely  apart  from  the  poet's  own  feelings.  On  the 
stage  this  is  accomplished  by  the  creation  of  sep- 
arate characters  who  in  propria  persona  express 
views  that  may  or  may  not  be  in  harmony  with  the 
poet's  own.  Thus,  Macbeth's  speech,  beginning 
Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  103 

is  really  a  dramatic  lyric;  because  it  is  lyrical  in 
form,  and  it  expresses  views  on  the  value  of  life 
which  could  hardly  have  been  held  by  Shakespeare, 
though  they  seem  eminently  fitting  from  the  lips  of 
a  man  who  had  tried  to  gain  the  whole  world  by 
losing  his  soul,  and  had  succeeded  in  losing  both. 

In  view  of  Browning's  love  for  this  form  of  verse, 
it  is  interesting  to  remember  that  the  first  two  inde- 
pendent short  poems  that  he  ever  wrote  and  retained 
in  his  works  are  both  genuine  dramatic  lyrics.  These 
are  Porphyrias  Lover  and  Johannes  Agricola, 
printed  in  the  Monthly  Repository  in  1836,  when 
Browning  was  twenty- four  years  old.  Thus  early 
did  he  show  both  aptitude  for  this  form  and  ex- 
cellence in  it,  for  each  of  these  pieces  is  a  work  of 
genius.  They  were  meant  to  be  studies  in  abnormal 
psychology,  for  they  were  printed  together  in  the 
Dramatic  Lyrics  under  the  caption  Madhouse  Cells. 
Browning  was  very  young  then,  and  naturally 
thought  a  man  who  believed  in  predestination  and  a 
man  who  killed  the  woman  he  loved  were  both  in- 
sane; but  after  a  longer  experience  of  life,  and  see- 
ing how  many  strange  creatures  walk  the  streets,  he 
ceased  to  call  these  two  men,  obsessed  by  religion 
and  obsessed  by  love,  mad.  If  Porphyria's  lover  is 
mad,  there  is  method  in  his  madness.    Her  superior 


104  BROWNING 

social  rank  has  stifled  hitherto  the  instincts  of  the 
heart;  she  has  never  given  her  lover  any  favors; 
but  to-night,  at  the  dinner-dance,  by  one  of  those 
strange  and  inexplicable  caprices  that  make  Woman 
the  very  Genius  of  the  Unexpected,  she  has  a  vision. 
In  the  midst  of  the  lights  and  the  laughter,  she  sees 
her  lonely  lover  sitting  dejectedly  in  his  cold  and 
cheerless  cottage,  thinking  of  her.  She  slips  away 
from  the  gay  company,  trips  through  the  pouring 
rain,  and  eaters  the  dark  room  like  an  angel  of  light. 
After  kindling  a  blazing  fire  in  the  grate,  she  kin- 
dles her  lover's  hope-dead  heart;  she  draws  him  to 
her  and  places  his  head  on  her  naked  shoulder.  Sud- 
denly a  thought  comes  to  him ;  one  can  see  the  light 
of  murder  in  his  eyes.  At  this  moment  she  is 
sublime,  fit  for  Heaven :  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
a  noble  impulse  has  triumphed  over  the  debasing 
conventions  of  society;  if  he  lets  her  go,  she  will 
surely  fall  from  grace,  and  become  a  lost  soul.  He 
strangles  her  with  her  yellow  hair,  risking  damna- 
tion for  her  salvation.  So  the  quick  and  the  dead 
sit  together  through  the  long  night. 

PORPHYRIAS  LOVER 

1836 

The  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 
The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  lU? 

It  tor.  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 

And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake : 

I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 
When  glided  in  Porphyria ;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 
And  kneeled  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm; 

Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 
Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 

And  called  me.    When  no  voice  replied, 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare. 
And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there, 

And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavour, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 

And  give  herself  to  me  for  ever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain : 

So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 
Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud ;  at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipped  me ;  surprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 

While  I  debated  what  to  do. 
That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,  fair, 

Perfectly  pure  and  good :  I  found 


If06  BROWNING 

A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 

And  strangled  her.    No  pain  felt  she ; 
I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 

As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 
I  warily  oped  her  lids :  again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 

And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck ;  her  cheek  once  more 

Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss : 
I  propped  her  head  up  as  before, 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 

Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still : 
The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 

So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 
That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead ! 

Porphyria's  love :  she  guessed  not  how 
Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 

And  thus  we  sit  together  now, 
And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word ! 

What  is  the  meaning  of  that  last  enigmatical  line  ? 
Does  it  mean  that  the  expected  bolt  from  the  sky 
has  not  fallen,  that  God  approves  of  the  murder? 
Or  does  it  mean  that  the  man  is  vaguely  disap- 
pointed, that  he  had  hoped  to  hear  a  voice  from 
Heaven,  saying,  "This  is  my  beloved  son,  in  whom 
I  am  well  pleased"?     Or  does  it  mean  that  the 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  107 

Power  above  is  wholly  indifferent,  "when  the  sky, 
which  noticed  all,  makes  no  disclosure"? 

In  Johannes  Agricola,  Browning  wrote  a  lyric 
setting  forth  the  strange  and  yet  largely  accepted 
doctrine  that  Almighty  God  before  the  foundations 
of  the  earth  were  laid,  predestined  a  few  of  the 
coming  population  to  everlasting  bliss  and  the  vast 
majority  to  eternal  torture.  This  is  by  no  means  a 
meditation  in  a  madhouse  cell,  as  Browning  first 
believed;  but  might  logically  be  the  reflections  of  a 
nineteenth  century  Presbyterian  clergyman,  seated 
in  his  comfortable  library.  It  is  the  ecstatic  mystical 
joy  of  one  who  realises,  that  through  no  merit  of 
his  own,  he  is  numbered  among  the  elect.  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  quaintly  pictured  to  himself  the 
surprise  of  the  noble,  upright  men  of  antiquity,  when 
they  wake  up  in  hell  simply  because  they  did  not 
believe  on  One  of  whom  they  had  never  heard;  so 
Johannes  speculates  on  the  ironical  fate  of  monks, 
ascetics,  women  and  children,  whose  lives  were  full 
of  innocence  and  purity,  who  nevertheless  reach  ul- 
timately the  lake  of  fire.  Praise  God  for  it!  for  if 
I  could  understand  Him,  I  could  not  praise  Him. 
How  much  more  noble  this  predestinating  God  is 
than  one  who  should  reward  virtue,  and  thus  make 
eternal  bliss  a  matter  of  calculation  and  bargain ! 


108  BROWNING 

JOHANNES  AGRICOLA  IN  MEDITATION 
1836 

There's  heaven  above,  and  night  by  night 

I  look  right  through  its  gorgeous  roof ; 
No  suns  and  moons  though  e'er  so  bright 

Avail  to  stop  me ;  splendour-proof 

I  keep  the  broods  of  stars  aloof : 
For  I  intend  to  get  to  God, 

For  'tis  to  God  I  speed  so  fast, 
For  in  God's  breast,  my  own  abode, 

Those  shoals  of  dazzling  glory  passed, 

I  lay  my  spirit  down  at  last. 
I  lie  where  I  have  always  lain, 

God  smiles  as  he  has  always  smiled ; 
Ere  suns  and  moons  could  wax  and  wane, 

Ere  stars  were  thundergirt,  or  piled 

The  heavens,  God  thought  on  me  his  child ; 
Ordained  a  life  for  me,  arrayed 

Its  circumstances  every  one 
To  the  minutest;  ay,  God  said 

This  head  this  hand  should  rest  upon 

Thus,  ere  he  fashioned  star  or  sun. 
And  having  thus  created  me, 

Thus  rooted  me,  he  bade  me  grow, 
Guiltless  for  ever,  like  a  tree 

That  buds  and  blooms,  nor  seeks  to  know 

The  law  by  which  it  prospers  so : 
But  sure  that  thought  and  word  and  deed 

All  go  to  swell  his  love  for  me, 
Me,  made  because  that  love  had  need 

Of  something  irreversibly 

Pledged  solely  its  content  to  be. 
Yes,  yes,  a  tree  which  must  ascend, 

No  poison-gourd  foredoomed  to  stoop! 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  109 

I  have  God's  warrant,  could  I  blend 

All  hideous  sins,  as  in  a  cup, 

To  drink  the  mingled  venoms  up ; 
Secure  my  nature  will  convert 

The  draught  to  blossoming  gladness  fast : 
While  sweet  dews  turn  to  the  gourd's  hurt, 

And  bloat,  and  while  they  bloat  it,  blast, 

As  from  the  first  its  lot  was  cast. 
For  as  I  lie,  smiled  on,  full-fed 

By  unexhausted  power  to  bless, 
I  gaze  below  on  hell's  fierce  bed, 

And  those  its  waves  of  flame  oppress, 

Swarming  in  ghastly  wretchedness  ; 
Whose  life  on  earth  aspired  to  be 

One  altar-smoke,  so  pure ! — to  win 
If  not  love  like  God's  love  for  me, 

At  least  to  keep  his  anger  in ; 

And  all  their  striving  turned  to  sin. 
Priest,  doctor,  hermit,  monk  grown  white 

With  prayer,  the  broken-hearted  nun, 
The  martyr,  the  wan  acolyte, 

The  incense-swinging  child, — undone 

Before  God  fashioned  star  or  sun ! 
God,  whom  I  praise ;  how  could  I  praise, 

If  such  as  I  might  understand, 
Make  out  and  reckon  on  his  ways, 

And  bargain  for  his  love,  and  stand, 

Paying  a  price,  at  his  right  hand  ? 

The  religious  exaltation  of  the  opening  lines 

There's  heaven  above,  and  night  by  night 
I  look  right  through  its  gorgeous  roof ;  .  .  . 

For  I  intend  to  get  to  God, 
For  'tis  to  God  I  speed  so  fast, 

For  in  God's  breast,  my  own  abode, 


110  BROWNING 

Those  shoals  of  dazzling  glory,  passed, 
I  lay  my  spirit  down  at  last 

reminds  one  infallibly  of  Tennyson's  beautiful  dra- 
matic lyric,  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 

Deep  on  the  convent  roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes, 

May  my  soul  follow  soonl 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  the  former  was 
published  in  1836,  the  latter  in  1837,  and  each  in  a 
periodical. 

Perhaps  Browning  attempted  to  show  the  dra- 
matic quality  of  his  lyrics  by  finally  placing  at  the 
very  beginning  the  Cavalier  Tunes  and  The  Lost 
Leader;  for  the  former  voice  in  eloquent  language 
the  hatred  of  democratic  ideas,  and  the  latter,  in 
language  equally  strenuous,  is  a  glorification  of  de- 
mocracy. Imagine  Browning  himself  saying  what 
he  places  in  the  mouth  of  his  gallant  cavaliers — 
"Hampden  to  hell!"  In  the  second,  The  Lost 
Leader,  nothing  was  farther  from  Browning's  own 
feelings  than  a  personal  attack  on  Wordsworth, 
whom  he  regarded  with  reverence ;  in  searching  for 
an  example  of  a  really  great  character  who  had 
turned  from  the  popular  to  the  aristocratic  party, 
he  happened  to  think  of  the  change  from  radicalism 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  111 

to  conservatism  exhibited  by  Wordsworth.  Love 
for  the  lost  leader  is  still  strong  in  the  breasts  of 
his  quondam  followers  wrho  now  must  fight  him; 
in  Heaven  he  will  not  only  be  pardoned,  he  will  be 
first  there  as  he  was  always  first  here.  In  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  the  prepositions  are  interesting: 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 
Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us. 

Shakespeare  was  indeed  of  the  common  people, 
but  so  far  as  we  can  conjecture,  certainly  not  for 
them;  Milton  was  not  of  them,  but  was  wholly  for 
them,  being  indeed  regarded  as  an  anarchist ;  Burns 
was  a  peasant,  and  Shelley  a  blue-blood,  but  both 
were  with  the  popular  cause.  Browning  himself,  as 
we  happen  to  know  from  one  of  his  personal  son- 
nets, was  an  intense  Liberal  in  feeling. 

CAVALIER  TUNES 
1842 

I.   MARCHING  ALONG 
I 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing : 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


112  BROWNING 

II 

God  for  King  Charles !   Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries  1 

Cavaliers,  up  !    Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're — 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Ill 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer  !    Rupert  is  near  ! 
Kentish  and  103'alists,  keep  we  not  here 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty -score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

IV 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !    Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles  1 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 
Chorus. — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song! 

II.  give  a  rouse 

I 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

II 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  113 

Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 

King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 

Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles! 

Ill      • 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 

By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 

For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 

While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now?, 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

III.     BOOT  AND  SADDLE 


Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  grey, 

Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

II 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say; 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay — 
Chorus. — "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!' 

Ill 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array : 
Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
Chorus. — "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!' 


114  BROWNING 

IV 

Who?    My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "Nay! 
"I've  better  counsellors;  what  counsel  they? 

Chorus. — "Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!' 

THE  LOST  LEADER 
1845 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  1 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from  their 
graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

— He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 

II 

We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire : 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  115 

One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  1 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 

The  poem  Cristina  (1842),  while  not  very  re- 
markable as  poetry,  is  notable  because  it  contains 
thus  early  in  Browning's  career,  four  of  his  most 
important  doctrines.  The  more  one  studies  Brown- 
ing, the  more  one  is  convinced  that  the  poet's  aston- 
ishing mental  vigor  is  shown  not  in  the  number 
and  variety  of  his  ideas,  but  rather  in  the  number 
and  variety  of  illustrations  of  them.  I  can  not  at 
this  moment  think  of  any  poet,  dramatist  or  novelist 
who  has  invented  so  many  plots  as  Browning.  He 
seems  to  present  to  us  a  few  leading  ideas  in  a  vast 
series  of  incarnations.  Over  and  over  again  the 
same  thoughts,  the  same  doctrines  are  repeated ;  but 
the  scenery,  the  situations,  and  the  characters  are 
never  alike.  Here  is  where  he  remains  true  to  the 
theory  set  forth  in  Transcendentalism;  the  poet 
should  not  produce  thoughts  but  rather  concrete 
images  of  them;  or,  as  he  says  in  the  closing  lines 


116  BROWNING 

of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Art  must  do  the  thing 
that  breeds  the  thought. 

In  Cristina,  four  of  Browning's  fundamental  ar- 
ticles of  faith  are  expressed:  the  doctrine  of  the 
elective  affinities;  the  doctrine  of  success  through 
failure;  the  doctrine  that  time  is  measured  not  by 
the  clock  and  the  calendar,  but  by  the  intensity  of 
spiritual  experiences;  the  doctrine  that  life  on  earth 
is  a  trial  and  a  test,  the  result  of  which  will  be  seen 
in  the  higher  and  happier  development  when  the 
soul  is  freed  from  the  limitations  of  time  and  space. 

The  expression  "elective  affinities"  as  applied  to 
human  beings  was  first  brought  into  literature,  I 
believe,  by  no  less  a  person  than  Goethe,  who  in  his 
novel,  published  in  1809.  which  he  called  Elective 
Affinities  (Wahlverwandschaften) ,  showed  the  tre- 
mendous force  which  tends  to  draw  together  cer- 
tain persons  of  opposite  sexes.  The  term  was  taken 
from  chemistry,  where  an  elective  affinity  means  the 
"force  by  which  the  atoms  of  bodies  of  dissimilar 
nature  unite" ;  elective  affinity  is  then  simply  a  chem- 
ical force. 

In  Goethe's  novel,  Charlotte  thus  addresses  the 
Captain :  "Would  you  tell  me  briefly  what  is  meant 
here  by  Affinities?"  The  Captain  replied,  "In  all 
natural  objects  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  we 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  117 

observe  immediately  that  they  have  a  certain  rela- 
tion." Charlotte:  "Let  me  try  and  see  whether  I 
can  understand  where  you  are  bringing  me.  As 
everything  has  a  reference  to  itself,  so  it  must  have 
some  relation  to  others."  Edward  interrupts :  "And 
that  will  be  different  according  to  the  natural  differ- 
ences of  the  things  themselves.  Sometimes  they  will 
meet  like  friends  and  old  acquaintances;  they  will 
come  rapidly  together,  and  unite  without  either  hav- 
ing to  alter  itself  at  all — as  wine  mixes  with  water." 
Charlotte :  "One  can  almost  fancy  that  in  these  sim- 
ple forms  one  sees  people  that  one  is  acquainted 
with."  The  Captain:  "As  soon  as  our  chemical 
chest  arrives,  we  can  show  you  a  number  of  enter- 
taining experiments,  which  will  give  you  a  clearer 
idea  than  words,  and  names,  and  technical  expres- 
sions." Charlotte:  "It  appears  to  me  that  if  you 
choose  to  call  these  strange  creatures  of  yours  re- 
lated, the  relationship  is  not  so  much  a  relationship 
of  blood  as  of  soul  or  of  spirit."  The  Captain :  "We 
had  better  keep  to  the  same  instances  of  which  we 
have  already  been  speaking.  Thus,  what  we  call 
limestone  is  a  more  or  less  pure  calcareous  earth  in 
combination  with  a  delicate  acid,  which  is  familiar 
to  us  in  the  form  of  a  gas.  Now,  if  we  place  a  piece 
of  this   stone  in  diluted  sulphuric  acid,   this  will 


118  BROWNING 

take  possession  of  the  lime,  and  appear  with  it  in 
the  form  of  gypsum,  the  gaseous  acid  at  the  same 
time  going  off  in  vapour.  Here  is  a  case  of  separa- 
tion :  a  combination  arises,  and  we  believe  ourselves 
now  justified  in  applying  to  it  the  words  "Elective 
Affinity;'  it  really  looks  as  if  one  relation  had  been 
deliberately  chosen  in  preference  to  another."  Char- 
lotte :  "Forgive  me,  as  I  forgive  the  natural  philoso- 
pher. I  can  not  see  any  choice  in  this ;  I  see  a  nat- 
ural necessity  rather,  and  scarcely  that.  Opportunity 
makes  relations  as  it  makes  thieves :  and  as  long  as 
the  talk  is  only  of  natural  substances,  the  choice  ap- 
pears to  be  altogether  in  the  hands  of  the  chemist 
who  brings  the  creatures  together.  Once,  however, 
let  them  be  brought  together,  and  then  God  have 
mercy  on  them."  The  scientific  conversation  is 
summed  up  by  their  all  agreeing  that  the  chemical 
term  "elective  affinities"  can  properly  be  applied  in 
analogy  to  human  beings. 

An  elective  affinity  as  applied  to  men  and  women 
may  result  in  happiness  or  misery;  or  may  be  frus- 
trated by  a  still  superior  prudential  or  moral  force. 
The  law  of  elective  affinity  being  a  force,  it  is  nat- 
urally unaware  of  any  human  artificial  obstacles, 
such  as  a  total  difference  in  social  rank,  or  the  pre- 
vious marriage  of  one  or  both  of  the  parties.     If 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  119 

two  independent  individuals  meet  and  are  drawn 
together  by  the  law  of  elective  affinities,  they  may 
marry  and  live  happily  forever  after;  if  another 
marriage  has  already  taken  place,  as  in  Goethe's 
story,  the  result  may  be  tragedy.  In  Cristina,  the 
elective  affinities  assert  their  force  between  a  queen 
and  a  private  individual ;  the  result  is,  at  least  tem- 
porarily, unfortunate  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
lady,  although  drawn  toward  the  man  by  the  work- 
ings of  this  mysterious  force,  is  controlled  even  more 
firmly  by  the  bondage  of  social  convention;  she  be- 
haves in  a  contrary  manner  to  that  shown  by  the 
stooping  lady  in  Maurice  Hewlett's  story.  This 
force  needs  only  one  moment,  one  glance,  to  assert 
its  power: 

She  should  never  have  looked  at  me 
If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her  1 

Love  in  Browning  is  often  love  at  first  sight;  no 
prolonged  acquaintance  is  necessary;  not  even  a 
spoken  word,  or  any  physical  contact. 

Doubt  you  whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me, 
Mine  and  her  souls  rushed  together? 

In  Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall  (published  the  same 
year),  contact  was  important: 


120  BROWNING 

And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 
Browning's  portrayal  of  love  shows  that  it  can 
be  a  wireless  telegraphy,  that,  in  the  instance  of 
Cristina  and  her  lover,  exerted  its  force  across  a 
crowded  room;  in  The  Statue  and  the  Bust,  it  is 
equally  powerful  across  a  public  square  in  Florence. 
The  glance,  or  as  Donne  expresses  it,  the  "twisted 
eye-beams/'  is  an  important  factor  in  Browning's 
poetry — sufficient  to  unite  two  souls  throughout  all 
eternity,  as  it  does  in  Tristan  and  Isolde.  Browning 
repeats  his  favorite  doctrine  of  the  elective  affini- 
ties in  Evelyn  Hope,  Count  Gismond,  In  a  Gondola, 
Dis  Aliter  Visum,  Youth  and  Art,  and  other  poems ; 
and  its  noblest  expression  is  perhaps  in  that  won- 
derful scene  in  the  crowded  theatre  at  Arezzo; 
whilst  the  flippant  audience  are  gazing  at  a  silly  mu- 
sical comedy,  the  sad  eyes  of  Pompilia  encounter 
the  grave,  serious  regard  of  Caponsacchi,  and  the 
two  young  hearts  are  united  forever. 

Another  leading  idea  in  Browning's  philosophy  is 
Success  in  Failure.  This  paradox  is  indeed  a  cor- 
ner-stone in  the  construction  of  his  thought.  Every 
noble  soul  must  fail  in  life,  because  every  noble 
soul  has  an  ideal.  We  may  be  encouraged  by  tem- 
porary successes,  but  we  must  be  inspired  by  failure. 
Browning  can  forgive  any  daring  criminal;  but  he 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  121 

can  not  forgive  the  man  who  is  selfishly  satisfied 
with  his  attainments  and  his  position,  and  thus  ac- 
cepts compromises  with  life.  The  soul  that  ceases 
to  grow  is  utterly  damned.  The  damnation  of  con- 
tentment is  shown  with  beauty  and  fervor  in  one 
of  Browning's  earliest  lyrics,  Over  the  Sea  Our 
Galleys  Went.  The  voyagers  were  weary  of  the 
long  journey,  they  heeded  not  the  voice  of  the  pilot 
Conscience,  they  accommodated  their  ideals  to  their 
personal  convenience.  The  reason  why  Browning 
could  not  forgive  Andrea  was  not  because  he  was 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  the  son  of  a  tailor;  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  known  as  the  Faultless  Painter,  be- 
cause he  could  actually  realise  his  dreams.  The  text 
/  of  that  whole  poem  is  found  in  the  line 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp. 

In  Cristina,  the  man's  love  is  not  rewarded  here, 
he  fails ;  but  he  has  aimed  high,  he  has  loved  a  queen. 
He  will  always  love  her — in  losing  her  he  has  found 
a  guiding  principle  for  his  own  life,  which  will  lead 
him  ever  up  and  on. 

She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained  her? 

Her  soul's  mine :  and  thus,  grown  perfect, 

I  shall  pass  my  life's  remainder. 

Her  body  I  have  lost :  some  other  man  will  pos- 


122  BROWNING 

sess  that :  but  her  soul  I  gained  in  the  moment  when 
our  eyes  met,  and  my  life  has  reached  a  higher  plane 
and  now  has  a  higher  motive.  In  failure  I  reach 
real  success. 

This  doctrine,   illustrated  repeatedly  in  Brown- 
ing's works,  is  stated  explicitly  in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra: 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

The  thought  that  life  is  not  measured  by  length 
of  days  is  brought  out  clearly  in  Cristina.  We  con- 
stantly read  in  the  paper  interviews  with  centena- 
rians, who  tell  us  how  to  prolong  our  lives  by  having 
sufficient  sleep,  by  eating  moderately,  by  refraining 
from  worry.  But,  as  a  writer  in  a  southern  journal 
expressed  it,  Why  do  these  aged  curiosities  never  tell 
us  what  use  they  have  made  of  this  prolonged  ex- 
istence? Mark  Twain  said  cheerfully,  "Methuselah 
lived  nine  hundred  and  sixty-nine  years;  but  what 
of  that?  There  was  nothing  doing."  No  drama  on 
the  stage  is  a  success  unless  it  has  what  we  call  a 
supreme  moment;  and  the  drama  of  our  individual 
lives  can  not  be  really  interesting  or  important  un- 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  123 

less  it  has  some  moments  when  we  live  intensely, 
when  we  live  longer  than  some  persons  live  in  years ; 
moments  that  settle  our  purpose  and  destiny. 

Oh,  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows  I 

But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure,  tho'  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 

And  apprise  it  if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 
There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 

There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honours  perish, 

Whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle. 

An  American  public  man  who  one  day  fell  in  pub- 
lic esteem  as  far  as  Lucifer,  said  that  it  had  taken 
him  fifty  years  to  build  up  a  great  reputation,  and 
that  he  had  lost  it  all  in  one  forenoon.  The  dying 
courtier  in  Paracelsus  had  such  a  moment. 

Finally,  in  Cristina,  we  find  that  ardent  belief  in 
a  future  life  that  lifts  its  head  so  often  and  so  reso- 
lutely in  Browning's  poetry,  and  on  which,  as  we 
shall  see  later,  his  optimism  is  founded.  Science 
tells  us  that  the  matter  of  which  the  universe  is 
composed  is  indestructible;  Browning  believes  even 
more  strongly  in  the  permanence  of  spirit.  Aspira- 
tion, enthusiasm,  love  would  not  be  given  to  us  to 


124  BROWNING 

have  their  purposes  broken  off,  not  if  this  is  a  ra- 
tional and  economic  universe;  the  important  thing 
is  not  to  have  our  hopes  fulfilled  here,  the  important 
thing  is  to  keep  hoping.  Such  love  as  the  man  had 
for  Cristina  must  eventually  find  its  full  satisfaction 
so  long  as  it  remains  the  guiding  principle  of  his 
life,  which  will  serve  as  a  test  of  his  tenacity. 

Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving 
Both  our  powers,  alone  and  blended: 
And  then,  come  next  life  quickly! 
This  world's  use  will  have  been  ended. 

Precisely  the  same  situation  and  the  same  philo- 
sophical result  of  it  are  illustrated  in  the  exquisite 
lyric,  Evelyn  Hope.  The  lover  is  frustrated  not  by 
social  distinctions,  but  by  death.  The  girl  is  lost  to 
him  here,  but  the  power  of  love  is  not  quenched  nor 
even  lessened  by  this  disaster.  The  man's  ardor 
will  steadily  increase  during  the  remaining  years 
of  his  earthly  existence;  and  then  his  soul  will  start 
out  confident  on  its  quest. 

God  above 
Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  I 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget, 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  125 

This  doctrine,  that  earthly  existence  is  a  mere 
test  of  the  soul  to  determine  its  fitness  for  entering 
upon  an  eternal  and  freer  stage  of  development,  is 
frequently  set  forth  in  Browning.  The  apostle  John 
makes  it  quite  clear  in  A  Death  in  the  Desert;  and  in 
Abt  Vogler,  the  inspired  musician  sings 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days?    Have  we  withered  or  agon- 
ised? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue 
thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords   in   but  that  harmony  might  be 
prized? 

From  the  above  discussion  it  should  be  plain  that 
the  short  poem  Cristina  deserves  patient  and  intense 
study,  for  it  contains  in  the  form  of  a  dramatic  lyric, 
some  of  Browning's  fundamental  ideas. 

CRISTINA 
1842 


She  should  never  have  looked  at  me 

If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her ! 
There  are  plenty  .  .  .  men,  you  call  such, 

I  suppose  .  .  .  she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases, 

And  yet  leave  much  as  she  found  them : 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it 

When  she  fixed  me,  glancing  round  them, 


126  BROWNING 

II 

What?    To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing? 

But  I  can't  tell  (there's  my  weakness) 
What  her  look  said ! — no  vile  cant,  sure, 

About  ''need  to  strew  the  bleakness 
"Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed. 

"That  the  sea  feels" — no  "strange  yearning 
"That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish 

"Where  there's  chance  of  least  returning." 

Ill 

Oh,  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows  1 

But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure  tho'  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 

And  apprise  it  if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 

IV 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 

There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honours  perish, 

Whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 

Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  life-time 

That  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

V 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment, 
As  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly, 

Ages  past  the  soul  existed, 

Here  an  age  'tis  resting  merely, 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  12£ 

And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages, 

While  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love-way, 

With  some  other  soul  to  mingle? 

VI 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for, 

And  eternally  must  lose  it ; 
Better  ends  may  be  in  prospect, 

Deeper  blisses  (if  you  choose  it), 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss 

Have  been  lost  here.    Doubt  you  whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me, 

Mine  and  her  souls  rushed  together? 

VII 

Oh,  observe!    Of  course,  next  moment, 

The  world's  honours,  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the  light  for  ever : 

Never  fear  but  there's  provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge 

Lest  we  walk  the  earth  in  rapture ! 
— Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret 

Just  so  much  more  prize  their  capture! 

VIII 

Such  am  I :  the  secret's  mine  now ! 

She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained  her ; 
Her  soul's  mine :  and  thus,  grown  perfect, 

I  shall  pass  my  life's  remainder. 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving 

Both  our  powers,  alone  and  blended : 
And  then,  come  the  next  life  quickly! 

This  world's  use  will  have  been  ended. 


128  BROWNING 

SONG  FROM  PARACELSUS 
1835 

Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave, 

A  gallant  armament: 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nailed  all  over  the  gaping  sides, 
Within  and  without,  with  black  bull-hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game : 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine, 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide  nor  starshine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Alight  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar ; 
But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star, 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  voyagers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  129 

Whence  gleamed  soft  light  and  curled  rich  scent, 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music  too  : 
So  the  stars  wheeled  round,  and  the  darkness  past, 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appeared — a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky  : 
"Avoid  it,"  cried  our  pilot,  "check 

"The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye!" 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh ; 
So,  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck ! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbour  thus, 
With  pomp  and  psean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone! 

All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done. 
When  lo !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs ! 
A  loaded  raft  with  happy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders ! 
"Our  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried, 

"Like  cloudlets  faint  in  even  sleeping : 
"Our  temple-gates  are  opened  wide, 

"Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
"For  these  majestic  forms" — they  cried. 


130  BROWNING 

Oh,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream,  and  knew,  too  late, 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate, 
Which  had  received  our  precious  freight : 

Yet  we  called  out — "Depart ! 
"Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide. 

"Our  work  is  done ;  we  have  no  heart 
"To  mar  our  work," — we  cried. 

EVELYN  HOPE 
1855 
I 
Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 
Save  two  long  rays  thro*  the  hinge's  chink, 

II 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 
Ill 
Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  131 

And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 
And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 

Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 
We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside? 

IV 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  I 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 


But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me: 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  1 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 


132  BROWNING 

VII 
I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while. 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold? 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  I 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

The  dramatic  lyric  in  two  parts  called  Meeting 
at  Night  and  Parting  at  Morning  contains  only  six- 
teen lines  and  is  a  flawless  masterpiece.  Of  the  four 
dimensions  of  mathematics,  one  only  has  nothing  to 
do  with  poetry.  The  length  of  a  poem  is  of  no  im- 
portance in  estimating  its  value.  I  do  not  fully  un- 
derstand what  is  meant  by  saying  that  a  poem  is 
too  long  or  too  short.  It  depends  entirely  on  the 
art  with  which  the  particular  subject  is  treated.  A 
short  poem  of  no  value  is  too  long;  a  long  poem  of 
genius  is  not  too  long.  Richardson's  Clarissa  in 
eight  volumes  is  not  too  long,  as  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  the  numerous  attempts  to  abridge  it  are  all 
failures;  whereas  many  short  stories  in  our  maga- 
zines are  far  too  long.  Browning's  Night  and  Morn- 
ing is  not  too  short,  because  it  contains  in  sixteen 
lines  everything  necessary;  The  Ring  and  the  Book 
is  not  too  long,  because  the  twenty  thousand  and  odd 
lines  are  all  needed  to  make  the  study  of  testimony 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  133 

absolutely  complete.  But  whilst  the  mathematical 
dimension  of  length  is  not  a  factor  in  poetry,  the 
dimensions  of  breadth  and  depth  are  of  vital  im- 
portance, and  the  mysterious  fourth  dimension  is  the 
quality  that  determines  whether  or  not  a  poem  is  a 
work  of  genius.  Poems  of  the  highest  imagination 
can  not  be  measured  at  all  except  in  the  fourth  di- 
mension. The  first  part  of  Browning's  lyric  is  no- 
table for  its  shortness,  its  breadth  and  its  depth ;  the 
second  part  possesses  these  qualities  even  more  no- 
tably, and  also  takes  the  reader's  thoughts  into  a 
world  entirely  outside  the  limits  of  time  and  space. 

Browning  has  often  been  called  a  careless  writer 
and  although  he  maintained  that  the  accusation  was 
untrue,  the  condition  of  some  of  the  manuscripts  he 
sent  to  the  press — notably  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium 
— is  proof  positive  that  he  did  not  work  at  each  one 
of  his  poems  at  his  highest  level  of  patient  industry. 
He  was  however  in  general  a  fastidious  artist ;  much 
more  so  than  is  commonly  supposed.  He  was  one 
of  our  greatest  impromptu  poets,  like  Shakespeare, 
writing  hot  from  the  brain;  he  was  not  a  polisher 
and  reviser,  like  Chaucer  and  Tennyson.  But  he 
studied  with  care  the  sound  of  his  words.  Many 
years  ago,  Mrs.  Le  Moyne,  who  has  done  so  much 
to  increase    the    number    of    intelligent    Browning 


134  BROWNING 

lovers  in  America,  met  the  poet  in  Europe,  and  told 
him  she  would  like  to  recite  to  him  one  of  his  own 
poems.  "Go  ahead,  my  dear."  So  she  began  to  re- 
peat in  her  beautiful  voice  Meeting  at  Night;  she 
spoke  the  third  line 

And  the  little  startled  waves  that  leap 

"Stop!"  said  Browning,  "that  isn't  right."  She 
then  learned  from  him  the  sharp  difference  between 
"little  startled  waves"  as  she  read  it,  and  "startled 
little  waves"  as  he  wrote  it.  He  was  trying  to  pro- 
duce the  effect  of  a  warm  night  on  the  beach  with 
no  wind,  where  the  tiny  wavelets  simply  crumble  in 
a  brittle  fashion  on  the  sand.  "Startled  little  waves" 
produces  this  effect ;  "little  startled  waves"  does  not. 

The  impressionistic  colors  in  this  poem  add  much 
to  its  effect ;  the  grey  sea,  the  black  land,  the  yellow 
moon,  the  fiery  ringlets,  the  blue  spurt  of  the  match, 
the  golden  light  of  morning.  The  sounds  and  smells 
are  realistic ;  one  hears  the  boat  cut  harshly  into  the 
slushy  sand;  the  sharp  scratch  of  the  match;  one  in- 
hales the  thick,  heavy  odor  radiating  from  the  sea- 
scented  beach  that  has  absorbed  all  day  the  hot 
rays  of  the  sun. 

It  is  probable  that  the  rendezvous  is  not  at  dusk, 
as  is  commonly  supposed,  but  at  midnight.     Owen 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  135 

Wister,  in  his  fine  novel,  The  Virginian,  speaks  of 
the  lover's  journey  as  taking  place  at  dusk.  Now 
the  half-moon  could  not  scientifically  be  low  at  that 
early  hour,  and  although  most  poets  care  nothing  at 
all  for  the  moon  except  as  a  decorative  object, 
Browning  was  generally  precise  in  such  matters.  An 
American  poet  submitted  to  the  Century  Magazine 
a  poem  that  was  accepted,  the  last  line  of  each  stanza 
reading 

And  in  the  west  the  waning  moon  hangs  low. 

One  of  the  editorial  staff  remembered  that  the 
waning  moon  does  not  hang  low  in  the  west;  he 
therefore  changed  the  word  to  "weary,"  which  made 
the  poet  angry.  He  insisted  that  he  was  a  poet,  not 
a  man  of  science,  and  vowed  that  he  would  place  his 
moon  exactly  where  he  chose.  The  editors  replied, 
"You  can  have  a  waning  moon  in  the  west  in  some 
magazines,  perhaps,  but  you  can  not  have  it  there 
in  the  Century/'  So  it  was  published  "weary,"  as 
any  one  may  see  who  has  sufficient  time  and  patience. 
Furthermore  the  contrast  in  this  poem  is  not  be- 
tween evening  and  morning,  but  between  night  and 
morning.  The  English  commonly  draw  a  distinc- 
tion between  evening  and  night  tha*  we  do  not  ob- 
serve in  America.    Pippa  Passes  is  divided  into  four 


136  BROWNING 

sections,  Morning,  Noon,  Evening,  Night.  Fur- 
thermore the  meeting  is  a  clandestine  one;  not  the 
first  one,  for  the  man's  soliloquy  of  his  line  of  march 
shows  how  often  he  has  travelled  this  way  before, 
and  now  his  eager  mind,  leaping  far  ahead  of  his 
feet,  repeats  to  him  each  stage  of  the  journey.  The 
cottage  is  shrouded  in  absolute  darkness  until  the 
lover's  tap  is  heard;  then  comes  the  sound  and  the 
sight  of  the  match,  and  the  sudden  thrill  of  the  mad 
embrace,  when  the  wild  heart-beats  are  louder  than 
the  love-whispers. 

The  dramatic  contrast  in  this  poem  is  between  the 
man's  feelings  at  night,  and  his  mood  in  the  morn- 
ing. Both  parts  of  the  lyric,  therefore,  come  from 
the  man's  heart.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose,  as  many 
critics  seem  to  think,  that  the  second  part  is  uttered 
by  the  woman.  Such  a  mistake  could  never  have 
arisen  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  word  "him"  in  the 
penultimate  line,  which  does  not  of  course,  refer  to 
the  man,  but  to  the  sun.  To  have  the  woman  repeat 
in  her  heart  these  lines  not  only  destroys  the  true 
philosophy  of  life  set  forth  in  the  lyric,  but  the  last 
reflection, 

And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me 
would  seem  to  make  her  taste  rather  catholic  for 
an  ideal  sweetheart. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  137 

The  real  meaning  of  the  poem  is  simply  this :  The 
passionate  intensity  of  love  can  not  be  exaggerated; 
in  the  night's  meeting  all  other  thoughts,  duties,  and 
pleasures  are  as  though  they  were  not ;  but  with  the 
day  comes  the  imperious  call  of  life  and  even  if  the 
woman  could  be  content  to  live  forever  with  her 
lover  in  the  lonely  cottage,  he  could  not;  he  loves 
her  honestly  with  fervor  and  sincerity,  but  he 
simply  must  go  out  into  the  world  where  men  are, 
and  take  his  share  of  the  excitement  and  the  strug- 
gle; he  would  soon  be  absolutely  miserable  if  ma- 
rooned from  life,  even  with  the  woman  he  loves. 
Those  novels  that  represent  a  man  as  having  no  in- 
terest in  life  but  love  are  false  to  human  nature.  In 
this  poem  Browning  represents  facts  as  they  are; 
it  is  not  simply  that  the  man  wants  to  go  out  and 
live  among  other  men,  it  is  a  natural  law  that  he 
must,  as  truly  a  natural  law  as  gravitation. 

And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

Just  as  the  sun  must  take  his  prescribed  course 
through  the  sky,  so  must  I  run  my  circle  of  duties 
in  the  world  of  men.  It  is  not  a  moral  call  of  duty; 
it  is  the  importunate  pull  of  necessity. 

There  is  still  the  possibility  of  another  interpreta- 
tion of  the  last  line,  though  I  think  the  one  just  given 


138  BROWNING 

is  correct,  "I  need  the  world  of  men;  it  is  a  natural 
law."  Now  it  is  just  possible  that  we  could  interpret 
"need"  in  another  sense,  with  an  inversion;  "the 
world  of  men  needs  me,  and  I  must  go  to  do  my 
share."  This  would  make  the  man  perhaps  nobler, 
but  surely  not  so  natural ;  indeed  it  would, sound  like 
a  priggish  excuse  to  leave  his  mistress.  I  have  never 
quite  surrendered  to  the  cavalier's  words 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not»!Hon&uf  nxo%e.'  \*b     ■, 

Are  we  sure  it  is  honor,  and  not  himself,  he  loves 
more? 

It  is  impossible  to  improve  on  the  Cowboy's  com- 
ment on  these  lines  in  Mr.  Wister's  Virginian;  after 
Molly  has  read  them  aloud  to  the  convalescing  male, 
he  remarks  softly,  "That  is  very,  very  true." 
Molly  does  not  see  why  the  Virginian  admires  these 
verses  so  much  more  than  the  others.  "I  could 
scarcely  explain,"  says  he,  "but  that  man  does  know 
something."  Molly  wants  to  know  if  the  lovers 
had  quarrelled.  "Oh,  no!  he  will  come  back  after 
he  has  played  some  more  of  the  game."  "The 
game?"  "Life,  ma'am.  Whatever  he  was  adoin'  in 
the  world  of  men.    That's  a  bed-rock  piece,  ma'am." 

The  Virginian  is  much  happier  in  his  literary  crit- 


DRAMATIC   LYRICS  139 

icism  of  this  lyric  than  he  is  of  the  Good  News  or  of 
the  Incident  of  the  French  Camp;  in  the  latter  in- 
stance, he  misses  the  point  altogether.  The  boy  was 
not  a  poseur.  The  boy  was  so  happy  to  think  he 
had  actually  given  his  life  for  his  master  that  he 
smilingly  corrected  Napoleon's  cry  "You're 
wounded !"  It  is  as  though  one  should  congratulate 
an  athletic  contestant,  and  say  "My  felicitations! 
you  won  the  second  prize!''  "No,  indeed:  I  won 
the  First." 

Night  and  Morning  suggests  so  many  thoughts 
that  we  could  continue  our  comments  indefinitely; 
but  time  suffices  for  only  one  more.  The  nature 
picture  of  the  dawn  is  absolutely  perfect. 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea. 

He  does  not  say  that  finally  the  cape  became  visi- 
ble, but  that  the  sea  suddenly  came  round  the  cape. 
Any  one  who  has  stood  on  the  ocean-shore  before 
dawn,  and  gazed  along  the  indented  coast  in  the 
grey  light,  has  observed  the  precise  effect  mentioned 
in  these  words.  At  first  one  sees  only  the  blur  of 
land  where  the  cape  is,  and  nothing  beyond  it ;  sud- 
denly the  light  increases,  and  the  sea  actually  ap- 
pears to  come  around  the  point. 


140  BROWNING 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 

1845 

The  grey  sea  and  the  long  black  land ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach ; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each ! 

PARTING  AT  MORNING 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  Browning,  of 
all  poets  most  intellectual,  should  be  so  predom- 
inantly the  poet  of  Love.  This  passion  is  the  motive 
power  of  his  verse,  as  he  believed  it  to  be  the  motive 
power  of  the  universe.  He  exhibits  the  love  of  men 
and  women  in  all  its  manifestations,  from  baseness 
and  folly  to  the  noblest  heights  of  self-renuncia- 
tion. It  is  natural  that  the  most  masculine  and  the 
most  vigorous  and  the  most  intellectual  of  all  out 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  141 

poets  should  devote  his  powers  mainly  to  the  repre- 
sentation of  love.  For  love  is  the  essence  of  force, 
and  does  not  spring  from  effeminate  weakness  or 
febrile  delicacy.  Any  painter  can  cover  a  huge 
canvas,  but,  as  has  been  observed,  only  the  strong 
hand  can  do  the  fine  and  tender  work.  To  discuss 
at  length  the  love-poems  of  Browning  would  take 
us  far  beyond  the  limits  of  this  volume;  but  certain 
of  the  dramatic  lyrics  may  be  selected  to  illustrate 
salient  characteristics.  As  various  poets  in  making 
portraits  emphasise  what  is  to  them  the  most  ex- 
pressive features,  the  eyes  or  the  lips,  so  Browning, 
the  poet  of  the  mind,  loves  best  of  all  in  his  women 
and  men,  the  Brow. 
In  Evelyn  Hope, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 
In  The  Last  Ride  Together, 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers. 

In  By  the  Fireside, 

Reading  by  firelight,  that  great  brow 
And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it. 

In  The  Statue  and  the  Bust, 

i 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 
Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure. 


142  BROWNING 

In  Count  Gismond, 

They,  too,  so  beauteous !    Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast. 

And  the  wonderful  description  of  Pompilia  by 
Caponsacchi : 

Her  brow  had  not  the  right  line,  leaned  too  much, 
Painters  would  say ;  they  like  the  straight-up  Greek : 
This  seemed  bent  somewhat  with  an  invisible  crown 
Of  martyr  and  saint,  not  such  as  art  approves. 

In  Eurydice, 

But  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the  brow ! 
In  Count  Gismond, 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 
Great  brow. 

In  The  Statue  and  the  Bust, 

On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth. 

His  ideally  beautiful  women  generally  have  yel- 
low hair.  The  lady  In  a  Gondola  had  coiled  hair,  "a 
round  smooth  cord  of  gold."  In  Evelyn  Hope,  the 
"hair's  young  gold :"  in  Love  Among  the  Ruins, 
"eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair :"  in  A  Toccata, 

Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what's  become  of  all 

the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ? 

And  we  must  not  forget  his  poem,  Gold  Hair. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  143 

His  descriptions  of  women's  faces  are  never  con- 
ventional, rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  but  always 
definite  and  specific.  In  Time's  Revenges,  the  un- 
fortunate lover  is  maddened  by  the  vision  of  the 
girl's  face : 

So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 
With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 
Of  shadow  round  her  mouth. 

Browning's  rejected  lovers  are  such  splendid  fel- 
lows that  one  wonders  at  their  ill  luck.  Tennyson's 
typical  lovers,  as  seen  in  Lockslcy  Hall,  Lady  Clara 
Vere  de  Vere,  and  the  first  part  of  Maud,  behave 
in  a  manner  that  quite  justifies  the  woman.  They 
whine,  they  rave,  and  they  seem  most  of  all  to  be 
astonished  at  the  woman's  lack  of  judgment  in  not 
recognising  their  merits.  Instead  of  a  noble  sorrow, 
they  exhibit  peevishness;  they  seem  to  say,  "You'll 
be  sorry  some  day."  Browning's  rejected  lovers 
never  think  of  themselves  and  their  own  defeat; 
they  think  only  of  the  woman,  who  is  now  more 
adorable  than  ever.  It  never  occurs  to  them  that 
the  woman  is  lacking  in  intelligence  because  of  her 
refusal;  nor  that  the  man  she  prefers  is  a  low- 
browed scoundrel.  They  are  chivalrous;  they  do 
their  best  to  win.     When  they  lose,  they  would 


144  BROWNING 

rather  have  been  rejected  by  this  woman  than  ac- 
cepted by  any  other;  and  they  are  always  ready  to 
congratulate  the  man  more  fortunate  than  they. 
They  are  in  fact  simply  irresistible,  and  one  can 
not  help  believing  in  their  ultimate  success.  In  The 
Lost  Mistress,  which  Swinburne  said  was  worth  a 
thousand  Lost  Leaders,  the  lover  has  just  been  re- 
jected, and  instead  of  thinking  of  his  own  misery, 
he  endeavours  to  make  the  awkward  situation  easier 
for  the  girl  by  small-talk  about  the  sparrows  and  the 
leaf-buds.  She  has  urged  that  their  friendship  con- 
tinue ;  that  this  episode  need  not  put  an  end  to  their 
meetings,  and  that  he  can  come  to  see  her  as  often 
as  he  likes,  only  there  must  be  no  nonsense ;  he  must 
promise  to  be  sensible,  and  treat  her  only  as  a  friend. 
Instead  of  rejecting  this  suggestion  with  scorn,  he 
accepts,  and  agrees  to  do  his  best. 

Tomorrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest? 

Ma}r  I  take  your  hand  in  mine? 
Mere  friends  are  we  .  .  . 
Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer ! 

"I  will  do  my  best  to  please  you,  but  remember  I'm 
made  of  flesh  and  blood." 

In  One  JVay  of  Love,  the  same  kind  of  man  ap- 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  145 

pears.  Pauline  likes  flowers,  music,  and  fine  speeches. 
He  is  just  a  mere  man,  who  has  never  noticed  a 
flower  in  his  life,  who  is  totally  indifferent  to  mu- 
sic, and  never  could  talk  with  eloquence.  But  if 
Pauline  likes  these  things,  he  must  endeavor  to  im- 
press her,  if  not  with  his  skill,  at  all  events  with  his 
devotion.  He  sends  her  a  beautiful  bouquet;  she 
does  not  even  notice  it.  For  months  he  tries  to  learn 
the  instrument,  until  finally  he  can  play  "his  tune." 
She  does  not  even  listen;  he  throws  the  lute  away, 
for  he  cares  nothing  for  music  except  for  her  sake. 
At  last  comes  the  supreme  moment  when  he  makes 
his  declaration,  on  which  the  whole  happiness  of  his 
life  depends. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion — heaven  or  hell? 

Many  lovers,  on  being  rejected,  wrould  simply  re- 
peat the  last  word  just  quoted.  This  fine  sportsman- 
like hero  remarks, 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?    Tis  well  I  . 

Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they ! 

*T  can  not  reproach  myself,  for  I  did  my  best,  and 
lost :  still  less  can  I  reproach  her ;  all  I  can  say  is,  the 
man  who  gets  her  is  lucky." 

Finally,  the  same  kind  of  character  appears  in  one 


146  BROWNING 

of  the  greatest  love-poems  in  all  literature,  The  Last 
Ride  Together.  The  situation  just  before  the  open- 
ing lines  is  an  exact  parallel  to  that  of  The  Lost  Mis- 
tress. Every  day  this  young  pair  have  been  riding 
together.  The  man  has  fallen  in  love,  and  has  mis- 
taken the  girl's  camaraderie  for  a  deeper  feeling. 
He  has  just  discovered  his  error,  and  without  mini- 
mising the  force  of  the  blow  that  has  wrecked  his 
life's  happiness,  this  is  what  he  says: 

Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 
Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to 
(curse,  oh,  no !) 

rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  1 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

What  does  the  rejected  lover  mean  by  such  brave 
words  as  "pride"  and  "thankfulness"?  He  means 
that  it  is  a  great  honor  to  be  rejected  by  such  a 
woman,  as  Mr.  Birrell  says  it  is  better  to  be  knocked 
down  by  Doctor  Johnson  than  to  be  picked  up  by 
Mr.  Froude.    He  is  thankful,  too,  to  have  known  such 


(-DRAMATIC    LYRICS  147. 

a  wonderful  woman ;  and  to  show  that  he  can  con- 
trol himself,  and  make  the  situation  easier  for  her, 
he  requests  that  to-day  for  the  last  time  they  ride  just 
as  usual — indeed  they  had  met  for  that  purpose,  are 
properly  accoutred,  and  were  about  to  start,  when  he 
astonished  her  with  his  sudden  and  no  longer  con- 
trollable declaration.  Right!  We  shall  ride  to- 
gether. I  am  not  yet  banished  from  the  sight  of  her. 
Perhaps  the  world  will  end  to-night. 

In  the  course  of  this  poem,  Browning  develops 
one  of  his  favorite  ideas,  that  Life  is  always  greater 
than  Art.  A  famous  poet  may  sit  at  his  desk,  and 
write  of  love  in  a  way  to  thrill  the  hearts  of  his 
readers;  but  we  should  place  him  lower  than  rustic 
sweethearts  meeting  in  the  moonlight,  because  they 
are  having  in  reality  something  which  exists  for  the 
poet  only  in  dreams.  The  same  is  true  of  sculpture 
and  all  pictorial  art ;  men  will  turn  from  the  greatest 
masterpiece  of  the  chisel  or  the  brush  to  look  at  a 
living  woman. 

And  you,  great  sculptor, — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

I  was  once  seated  in  the  square  room  in  the  gal- 
lery at  Dresden  that  holds  the  most  famous  picture 


148  BROWNING 

in  the  world,  Rafael's  Sistine  Madonna.  A  num- 
ber of  tourists  were  in  the  place,  and  we  were  all 
gazing  steadfastly  at  the  immortal  Virgin,  when  a 
pretty,  fresh-colored  young  American  girl  entered 
the  room.  Every  man's  head  twisted  away  from 
the  masterpiece  of  art,  and  every  man's  eyes  stared 
at  the  commonplace  stranger,  because  she  was  alive ! 
I  was  much  amused,  and  could  not  help  thinking  of 
Browning's  lines. 

This  doctrine,  that  Life  is  greater  than  Art,  is 
repeated  by  Browning  in  Cleon,  and  it  forms  the 
whole  content  of  Ibsen's  last  drama,  When  We  Dead 
Awaken. 

The  lover's  reasoning  at  the  close  of  Browning's 
poem,  that  rejection  may  be  better  for  him  because 
now  he  has  an  unrealised  ideal,  and  that  the  race 
itself  is  better  than  the  victor's  garland,  reminds  us 
of  Lessing's  noble  saying,  that  if  God  gave  him  the 
choice  between  the  knowledge  of  all  truth  and  the 
search  for  it,  he  would  humbly  take  the  latter. 

One  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  JiVw-descried. 


BROWNING'S  REJECTED  LOVERS 


THE  LOST  MISTRESS 
1845 
All's  over,  then ;  does  truth  sound  bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes? 
Hark,  'tis  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves  ! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully 

— You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine? 
Mere  friends  are  we, — well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign : 

For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  forever ! — 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer ! 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 
1855 

I 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?    Alas  ! 

149 


150  BROWNING 

Let  them  lie.    Suppose  they  die? 

The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye, 

II. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music?    So! 
Break  the  string ;  fold  music's  wing : 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing ! 

Ill 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion — heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven?    'Tis  well! 

Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they ! 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 
1855 


I  said — Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  151 


II 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance :  right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

Ill 

Hush !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here ! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

IV 

Then  we  began  to  ride.    My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 


152  BROWNING 

Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 
And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

V 
Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  ? 
We  rode ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labour,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me ;  here  we  ride. 

VI 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshfy  screen  ? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing !  what  atones  ? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

VII 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  153 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men? 
Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme? 

Sing,  riding's  a  joy!    For  me,  I  ride. 
VIII 
And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  grey 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
"Put  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end  1" 

I  gave  my  youth ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 
IX 
Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?    Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such?    Try  and  test! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 
X 
And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 


154  BROWNING 

At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  for  ever  ride? 

Browning's  lovers,  as  has  been  illustrated,  are 
usually  chivalrous,  whether  their  passions  have  or 
have  not  the  sanction  of  law.  The  poem  In  a  Gon- 
dola, which  has  been  more  often  translated  into  for- 
eign languages  than  perhaps  any  other  of  Brown- 
ing's works,  gives  us  a  picture  of  a  night  in  Venice. 
The  fluent  rhythms  of  the  verse  indicate  the  lazy 
glide  of  the  gondola  through  the  dark  waters  of  the 
canal.  The  lovers  speak,  sing,  and  muse ;  and  their 
conversation  is  full  of  the  little  language  character- 
istic of  those  who  are  in  complete  possession  of 
each  other,  soul  and  body.  They  delight  in  pas- 
sionate reminiscences :  they  love  to  recall  their  first 
chance  meeting : 

Ah,  the  autumn  day 
I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead ! 

The  wind  blew  out  the  curtains  of  her  apartment, 
and  her  pet  parrot  escaped,  giving  the  man  his  op- 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  155 

portunity.  They  rehearse  over  again  the  advancing 
stages  of  their  drama.  She  asks  him  to  kiss  her  like 
a  moth,  then  like  a  bee — in  the  attempt  to  recapture 
the  first  shy  sweetness  of  their  dawning  passion. 
They  play  little  love-games.  He  pretends  he  is  a 
Jew,  carrying  her  away  from  her  family  to  a 
tribal  feast;  then  that  they  twain  are  spirits  of  stars, 
meeting  in  the  thin  air  aloft.  The  intensity  of  their 
bliss  is  sharpened  by  the  black  cloud  of  danger  in 
which  they  move :  for  if  the  Three,  husband,  father, 
and  brother  of  the  lady  become  aware  of  this  secret 
liaison,  there  can  be  only  one  end  to  it — a  tragedy 
of  blood.  The  lighted  taper  held  in  the  window  by 
the  trusted  maid  shows  that  they  are  "safe,"  and 
for  the  last  time  they  play  again- their  little  comedy 
of  formality.  She  pretends  to  be  the  formal  grande 
dame,  the  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow :  he 
is  the  bashful  gallant,  who  hardly  dares  touch  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  In  this  laughing  moment,  the 
dagger  of  the  husband  is  driven  deep  into  his  back. 
Like  all  of  Browning's  lovers,  he  gives,  even  on  the 
edge  of  the  eternal  darkness,  no  thought  to  himself, 
but  only  to  her.  Gathering  his  dying  energies,  he 
speaks  in  a  loud  tone,  so  that  the  conspirators,  invisi- 
ble in  the  Venetian  night,  may  hear  him : 


156  BROWNING 

Care  not  for  the  cowards !    Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt ! 

And  in  the  last  agony,  he  comforts  her  with  the 
thought  that  all  this,  the  joy  of  love  and  the  separa- 
tion by  murder,  have  been  ordained. 

In  Love  Among  the  Ruins,  with  which  Men  and 
Women  originally  opened,  and  which  some  believe 
to  be  Browning's  masterpiece,  Love  is  given  its 
place  as  the  supreme  fact  in  human  history.  This  is 
a  scene  in  the  Roman  Campagna  at  twilight,  and  the 
picture  in  the  first  stanza  reminds  us  of  Gray's  Elegy 
in  the  perfection  of  its  quiet  silver  tone.  With  a  skill 
nothing  short  of  genius,  Browning  has  maintained 
in  this  poem  a  double  parallel.  Up  to  the  fifth 
stanza,  the  contrast  is  between  the  present  peace  of 
the  vast  solitary  plain,  and  its  condition  years  ago 
when  it  was  the  centre  of  a  city's  beating  heart: 
from  the  fifth  stanza  to  the  close,  the  contrast  is  be- 
tween this  same  vanished  civilisation  and  the  eternal 
quality  of  Love.  I  do  not  remember  any  other  work 
in  literature  where  a  double  parallel  is  given  with 
such  perfect  continuity  and  beauty;  the  first  half  of 
each  stanza  is  in  exact  antithesis  to  the  last.  The 
parenthesis — so  they  say — is  a  delicate  touch  of 
dramatic  irony.     No  one  would  dream  that  this 


DRAMATIC    LYR1ICS  159 


quiet  plain  was  once  the  site  of  a  wall 
proofs  remain :  we  have  to  tak 

r  ,n  on  nor  be  pressed, 

archaeologists  for  it.     Some 
herd  may  pasture  his  sheeT 
After  a  poetic  dis^ 

gloria   tnutldi — the.no!  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

duced  in  the  fi"ever  was! 

l  as,  this  summer-time,  o  erspreads 

changes,  and      And  embeds 
ephemeral  tstige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

fact  of  T  Stock  or  stone— 

,re  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 
Stand  Long  ago; 

whePust  °f  gl°ry  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 
i  Struck  them  tame ; 

And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 
Bought  and  sold. 


IV 


Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 


156  BROWNING 

Casignificant  than  all  the  broken  bits 
Only  to  put  yft  Qf  the  ground ;  yet  such  is  the 

My  blood  will 

o  at  his  very  best  is  to  recon- 
And  in  the  last  agony,  ibile  the  lovers  are  acting 
thought  that  all  this,  the  joy  o\    Love  is  best, 
tion  by  murder,  have  been  ordain. 

"  T  T  "NT  C 

In  Love  Among  the  Ruins,  with 
Women  originally  opened,  and  which 
to  be  Browning's  masterpiece,   Love  is 
place  as  the  supreme  fact  in  human  history/ 
a  scene  in  the  Roman  Campagna  at  twilight,  a. 
picture  in  the  first  stanza  reminds  us  of  Gray's  L. 
in  the  perfection  of  its  quiet  silver  tone.    With  a  sk 
nothing  short  of  genius,  Browning  has  maintained 
in  this  poem  a  double  parallel.     Up  to  the  fifth 
stanza,  the  contrast  is  between  the  present  peace  of 
the  vast  solitary  plain,  and  its  condition  years  ago 
when  it  was  the  centre  of  a  city's  beating  heart: 
from  the  fifth  stanza  to  the  close,  the  contrast  is  be- 
tween this  same  vanished  civilisation  and  the  eternal 
quality  of  Love.    I  do  not  remember  any  other  work 
in  literature  where  a  double  parallel  is  given  with 
such  perfect  continuity  and  beauty;  the  first  half  of 
each  stanza  is  in  exact  antithesis  to  the  last.     The 
parenthesis — so   they  say — is  a   delicate  touch  of 
dramatic  irony.     No  one  would  dream  that  this 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  159 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 


Ill 


And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 


IV 


Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 


160  BROWNING 


And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 
Smiles  to  leave 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many-tinkling  fleece 
In  such  peace, 

And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  grey- 
Melt  away — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
Waits  me  there 

In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 
For  the  goal, 

When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless, 
dumb 

Till  I  come. 
VI 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then, 

All  the  men  1 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

VII 
In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  161 

Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns !    r_  jo*.  .,  -,fi^' 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest  I 

Love  is  best. 

In  the  poem  Respectability  Browning  gives  us  a 
more  vulgar,  but  none  the  less  vital  aspect  of  love. 
This  is  no  peaceful  twilit  harmony;  this  scene  is 
set  on  a  windy,  rainy  night  in  noisy  Paris,  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Seine,  directly  in  front  of  the  In- 
stitute of  France.  Two  reckless  lovers — either  old 
comrades  or  picked-up  acquaintances  of  this  very 
night,  it  matters  not  which — come  tripping  along 
gaily,  arm  in  arm.  The  man  chaffs  at  worldly  con- 
ventions, at  the  dullness  of  society,  at  the  hypocrisy 
of  so-called  respectable  people,  and  congratulates 
himself  and  his  fair  companion  on  the  fun  they  are 
having.  What  fools  they  would  have  been  had  they 
waited  through  a  long,  formal  courtship  for  the 
sanction  of  an  expensive  marriage !  The  world,  he 
says,  does  not  forbid  kisses,  only  it  says,  you  must 
see  the  magistrate  first.  My  finger  must  not  touch 
your  soft  lips  until  it  is  covered  with  the  glove  of 
marriage.  Bah!  what  do  we  care  for  the  world's 
good  word  ?  At  this  moment  they  reach  the  lighted 
windows  of  the  Institute,  and  like  a  pair  of  spar- 


162  BROWNING 

rows,  they  glance  within  at  the  highly  proper  but 
terribly  tedious  company.  What  do  they  see  ?  They 
see  Guizot  compelled  by  political  exigency  to  shake 
hands  hypocritically  with  his  enemy  Montalembert. 
But  before  them  down  a  dim  court  shine  three 
lamps,  an  all-night  dance  resort.  Come  on !  run  for 
it!  that's  the  place  for  us!  no  dull  formalities,  no 
hypocrisies  there!     Something  doing! 

RESPECTABILITY 

1855 


Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 
Deigned  to  proclaim  "I  know  you  both, 
"Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 

"Am  sponsor  for  you :  live  in  peace !" — 

How  many  precious  months  and  years 
Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast, 
Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 

The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 

II 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 
With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 
And  women  models  of  their  sex, 

Society's  true  ornament, — 

Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 
Thro*  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine, 
And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss? 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  163 

III 

I  know !  the  world  proscribes  not  love ; 

Allows  my  finger  to  caress 

Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 
The  world's  good  word! — the  Institute! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 

Eh?    Down  the  court  three  lampions  flare: 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 

In  the  list  of  Dramatis  Persons,  Browning  placed 
Confessions  shortly  after  A  Death  in  the  Desert,  as 
if  to  show  the  enormous  contrast  in  two  death-bed 
scenes.  After  a  presentation  of  the  last  noble,  spir- 
itual, inspired  moments  of  the  apostle  John,  we  have 
portrayed  for  us  the  dying  delirium  of  an  old 
sinner,  whose  thought  travels  back  to  the  sweetest 
moments  of  his  life,  his  clandestine  meetings  with 
the  girl  he  loved.  The  solemn  voice  of  the  priest 
is  like  the  troublesome  buzzing  of  a  fly. 

Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears? 
Not  much ! 

Like  Matthew  Arnold's  Wish,  the  brother-doctor 
of  the  soul  who  is  called  in 

To  canvass  with  official  breath 

is  simply  a  nuisance  in  these  last  minutes  of  life. 
The  row  of  medicine  bottles,  all  useless  now  for 
practical  purposes,  represents  to  his  fevered  eyes  the 


164  BROWNING 

topography  of  the  scene  where  the  girl  used  to  come 
running  to  meet  him.  "I  know,  sir,  it's  improper," 
— I  ought  not  to  talk  this  way  to  a  clergyman,  my 
mind  isn't  right,  I'm  dying,  and  this  is  all  I  can 
think  of. 

How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 
But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 

CONFESSIONS 
1864 

What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  ? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears?" 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, — is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall ;  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "Ether" 

Is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper, 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper, 

My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  165 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except : 

They  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help, — their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.  Alas, 

We  loved,  sir — used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 

We  may  close  our  considerations  of  the  dramatic 
lyrics  with  three  love-poems.  Whenever  in  his  later 
years  Browning  was  asked  to  write  a  selection  with 
his  autograph,  he  used  to  say  playfully  that  the  only 
one  of  his  poems  that  he  could  remember  was  My 
Star;  hence  more  copies  of  this  exist  in  manuscript 
than  any  other  of  his  productions.  It  was  of  course 
a  tribute  to  his  wife;  she  shone  upon  his  life  like  a 
star  of  various  colors;  but  the  moment  the  world 
attempted  to  pry  into  the  secret  of  her  genius,  she 
shut  off  the  light  altogether.  Let  the  world  regard 
Saturn,  the  most  wonderful  star  in  the  heavens.  My 
star  shines  for  me  alone. 


166  BROWNING 

The  first  and  best  of  the  series  of  Bad  Dreams 
gives  us  again  in  Browning's  last  volume  his  doctrine 
of  love.  Love  is  its  own  reward :  it  may  be  sad  not 
to  have  love  returned,  but  the  one  unspeakable 
tragedy  is  to  lose  the  capacity  for  loving.  In  a  ter- 
rible dream,  the  face  of  the  woman  changes  from 
its  familiar  tenderness  to  a  glance  of  stony  indiffer- 
ence, and  in  response  to  his  agonised  enquiry,  she  de- 
clares that  her  love  for  him  is  absolutely  dead.  Then 
comes  a  twofold  bliss :  one  was  in  the  mere  waking 
from  such  desolation,  but  the  other  consisted  in  the 
fact  that  even  if  the  dream  were  true,  his  love  for 
her  knew  no  diminution.  Thank  God,  I  loved  on 
the  same ! 

The  most  audacious  poem  of  Browning's  old  age 
is  Siimmum  Bonum.  Since  the  dawn  of  human 
speculative  thought,  philosophers  have  asked  this 
question,  What  is  the  highest  good?  It  has  been 
answered  in  various  ways.  Omar  Khayyam  said  it 
wras  Wine :  John  Stuart  Mill  said  it  was  the  greatest 
happiness  of  the  greatest  number:  the  Westminster 
Catechism  said  it  was  to  glorify  God  and  enjoy  Him 
forever.  Browning  says  it  is  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 
This  kiss  is  the  concentrated  essence  of  all  the  glory, 
beauty,  and  sweetness  of  life.  In  order  to  under- 
stand such  a  paradox,  wre  must  remember  that  in 


DRAMATIC    LYRICS  167 

Browning's  philosophy,  Love  is  the  engine  of  the 
whole  universe.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Love  meant  to 
him  more  than  it  has  ever  meant  to  any  other  poet 
or  thinker ;  just  as  I  am  sure  that  the  word  Beauty 
revealed  to  Keats  a  vision  entirely  beyond  the  range 
of  even  the  greatest  seers.  Love  is  the  supreme  fact ; 
and  every  manifestation  of  it  on  earth,  from  the  Di- 
vine Incarnation  down  to  a  chance  meeting  of  lovers, 
is  more  important  than  any  other  event  or  idea.  Now 
we  have  seen  that  it  is  Browning's  way  invariably 
to  represent  an  abstract  thought  by  a  concrete  illus- 
tration. Therefore  in  this  great  and  daring  lyric 
we  find  the  imaginary  lover  calling  the  kiss  of  the 
woman  he  loves  the  highest  good  in  life. 

MY  STAR 
1855 
All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 
They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled : 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


168  BROWNING 

BAD  DREAMS 
1889 

Last  night  I  saw  you  in  my  sleep : 

And  how  your  charm  of  face  was  changed ! 

I  asked  "Some  love,  some  faith  you  keep?" 
You  answered  "Faith  gone,  love  estranged." 

Whereat  I  woke — a  twofold  bliss : 
Waking  was  one,  but  next  there  came 

This  other :    "Though  I  felt,  for  this, 
My  heart  break,  I  loved  on  the  same." 

SUMMUM  BONUM 

1889 

All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of  one 
bee: 
All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of  one 
gem: 
In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the  sea : 
Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine, — wonder,  wealth,  and — 
how  far  above  them — 

Truth,  that's  brighter  than  gem, 
Trust,  that's  purer  than  pearl, — 
Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe — all  were  for  me 
In  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES 

ALTHOUGH  Browning  was  not  a  failure  as  a 
L dramatist — A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  and  In 
a  Balcony  are  the  greatest  verse  tragedies  in  the  lan- 
guage since  the  Elizabethans — he  found  the  true 
channel  for  his  genius  in  the  Dramatic  Monologue. 
He  takes  a  certain  critical  moment  in  one  person's 
life,  and  by  permitting  the  individual  to  speak,  his 
character,  the  whole  course  of  his  existence,  and 
sometimes  the  spirit  of  an  entire  period  in  the 
world's  history  are  revealed  in  a  brilliant  search- 
light. With  very  few  exceptions,  one  of  which  will 
be  given  in  our  selections,  a  dramatic  monologue  is 
not  a  meditation  nor  a  soliloquy;  it  is  a  series  of  re- 
marks, usually  confessional,  addressed  either  orally 
or  in  an  epistolary  form  to  another  person  or  to  a 
group  of  listeners.  These  other  figures,  though 
they  do  not  speak,  are  necessary  to  the  understand- 
ing of  the  monologue;  we  often  see  them  plainly, 

169 


170  BROWNING 

and  see  their  faces  change  in  expression  as  the  mon- 
ologue advances.  At  the  dinner  table  of  Bishop 
Blougram,  the  little  man  Gigadibs  is  conspicuously 
there ;  and  Lucrezia  is  so  vividly  before  us  in  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  that  a  clever  actress  has  actually  assumed 
this  silent  role  on  the  stage,  and  exhibited  simply  by 
her  countenance  the  effect  of  Andrea's  monologue. 
This  species  of  verse  is  perhaps  the  highest  form  of 
poetic  art,  as  it  is  the  most  difficult ;  for  with  no  stage 
setting,  no  descriptions,  no  breaks  in  the  conversa- 
tion, the  depths  of  the  human  heart  are  exposed. 

One  of  the  greatest  dramatic  monologues  in  all 
literature  is  My  Last  Duchess,  and  it  is  astounding 
that  so  profound  a  life-drama  should  have  been  con- 
ceived and  faultlessly  expressed  by  so  young  a  poet. 
The  whole  poem  contains  only  fifty-six  lines,  but  it 
could  easily  be  expanded  into  a  three-volume  novel. 
Indeed  it  exhibits  Browning's  genius  for  condensa- 
tion as  impressively  as  The  Ring  and  the  Book 
proves  his  genius  for  expansion.  The  metre  is  in- 
teresting. It  is  the  heroic  couplet,  the  same  form 
exactly  in  which  Pope  wrote  his  major  productions. 
Yet  the  rime,  which  is  as  evident  as  the  recurring 
strokes  of  a  tack-hammer  in  Pope,  is  scarcely  heard 
at  all  in  My  Last  Duchess.  Its  effect  is  so  muffled, 
so  concealed,  that  I  venture  to  say  that  many  who 


) 

DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  171 

are  quite  familiar  with  the  poem,  could  not  declare 
offhand  whether  it  were  written  in  rime  or  in  blank 
verse.  This  technical  trick  is  accomplished  by  what 
the  French  call  overflow,  the  running  on  of  the 
sense  from  one  line  to  another,  a  device  so  dear  to 
the  heart  of  Milton.  Some  one  has  well  said  that 
Dryden's  couplets  are  links  in  a  chain,  whilst  Pope's 
are  pearls  on  a  string.  Pope  enclosed  nearly  every 
couplet,  so  that  they  are  quite  separate,  which  is  one 
reason  why  he  has  given  us  such  a  vast  number  of 
aphorisms.  To  see  how  totally  different  in  effect  the 
heroic  couplet  is  when  it  is  closed  and  when  it  is 
open,  one  may  compare  almost  any  selection  from 
Pope  with  the  opening  lines  of  Keats's  Endymion, 
and  then  silently  marvel  that  both  poems  are  written 
in  exactly  the  same  measure. 

POPE 
Peace  to  all  such !  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise. 

KEATS 
A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 
Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 


172  fllteOWNlNG 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

One  has  only  to  glance  at  the  printed  page  of  My 
Last  Duchess,  and  see  how  few  of  the  lines  end  in 
punctuation  points,  to  discover  the  method  employed 
when  a  poet  wishes  to  write  a  very  strict  measure  in 
a  very  free  manner. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  George  Eliot  took 
a  hint  from  this  poem  in  the  composition  of  Daniel 
Deronda,  for  the  relations  between  Grandcourt  and 
Gwendolen  are  exactly  the  same  as  existed  between 
the  Duke  and  his  late  wife;  a  more  recent,  though 
not  so  great  an  example,  may  be  found  in  Mrs. 
Burnett's  novel,  The  Shuttle.  The  poem  is  a  study 
in  cold,  systematic  torture  of  a  warm  human  soul 
by  an  icy-hearted  tyrant. 

Browning  adopts  one  of  his  favorite  methods  of 
character-revelation  here.  All  that  we  know  of  the 
Duchess  is  the  testimony  given  by  her  worst  enemy, 
her  husband ;  and  yet,  in  attempting  to  describe  her, 
he  has  succeeded  in  painting  only  his  own  narrow 
and  hideous  heart.  Slander  is  often  greater  in  the 
recoil  than  in  the  discharge;  when  a  man  attempts 
to    give    an    unfavorable    portrait    of   another,    he 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  173 

usually  gives  us  an  exact  likeness  of  himself.  Pope 
meant  his  picture  of  x\ddison  to  be  correct;  but  al- 
though he  made  the  picture  with  immortal  art,  it  is 
no  more  like  Addison  than  it  resembles  St.  Francis ; 
it  is,  however,  an  absolutely  faithful  image  of  Pope 
himself.  This  is  one  reason  why  slander  is  such  an 
exceedingly  dangerous  weapon  to  handle. 

The  Duke  tells  the  envoy  that  his  late  Duchess 
was  flirtatious,  plebeian  in  her  enthusiasm,  not  suffi- 
ciently careful  to  please  her  husband;  but  the  evi- 
dent truth  is  that  he  had  a  Satanic  pride,  that  he  was 
yellow  with  jealousy,  that  he  was  methodically  cruel. 
Hisjealousy  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  he  would  al- 
low only  a  monk  to  paint  her :  "I  said  'Fra  Pan- 
dolf  by  design,"  and  he  required  the  monk  to  do 
the  whole  task  in  one  day.  Hjsj^rjde  is  shown  in 
the  fact  that  although  her  expansive  nature  dis- 
pleased him,  he  would  never  stoop  to  remonstrate 
with  her.  His  cruelty  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  he 
coldly  repressed  her  little  enthusiasms,  and  finally 
murdered  her.  I  suppose  she  was  really  a  frank, 
charming  girl,  who  came  from  a  happy  home,  a 
bright  and  eager  bride;  she  was  one  of  those  lovely 
women  whose  kindness  and  responsiveness  are  as 
natural  as  the  sunlight.  She  loved  to  watch  the 
sunset  from  the  terrace ;  she  loved  to  pet  the  white 


174  BROWNING 

mule ;  she  was  delighted  when  some  one  brought  her 
a  gift  of  cherries.  Then  she  was  puzzled,  bewil- 
dered, when  she  found  that  all  her  expressions  of  de- 
light in  life  received  a  cold,  disapproving  glance  of 
scorn  from  her  husband;  her  lively  talk  at  dinner, 
her  return  from  a  ride,  flushed  and  eager,  met  in- 
variably this  icy  stare  of  hatred.  She  smiled  too 
much  to  please  him. 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together. 

What  difference  does  it  make  whether  he  deliber- 
ately poisoned  her,  or  whether  he  simply  broke 
her  heart  by  the  daily  chill  of  silent  contempt?  For 
her,  at  all  events,  death  must  have  been  a  release. 
She  would  have  been  happier  with  a  drunken  hus- 
band, with  a  brute  who  kicked  her,  rather  than  with 
this  supercilious  cold-hearted  patrician.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  poem,  in  his  remarks  about  the  dowry, 
we  see  that  the  Duke  is  as  avaricious  as  he  is  cruel ; 
though  he  says  with  a  disagreeable  smile,  that  the 
woman  herself  is  his  real  object.  The  touch  to 
make  this  terrible  man  complete  comes  at  the  very 
end.  The  Duke  and  the  envoy  prepare  to  descend 
the  staircase ;  the  latter  bows,  to  give  precedence  to 
the  man  with  the  nine  hundred  years'  old  name :  but 
the  Duke,  with  a  purr  like  a  tiger,  places  his  arm 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  175 

around  the  shoulder  of  the  visitor,  and  they  take 
the  first  step.  Just  then  the  master  of  the  palace 
calls  attention  casually  to  a  group  of  statuary.  It 
is  Neptune  taming  a  sea-horse.  That's  the  way  I 
break  them  in ! 

Throughout    the    whole    monologue,    the  Duke 
speaks  in  a  quiet,  steady,  ironical  tone ;  the  line 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance 

is  pronounced  in  intense  irony,  in  ridicule  of  the  con- 
ventional remark  made  by  previous  visitors.  Only 
once  or  twice  do  we  see  the  teeth  of  this  monster 
flash,  revealing  his  horrible  heart.  When  he  speaks 
of  the  "officious  fool"  who  brought  the  cherries,  and 
when  he  says* "all  smiles  stopped  together";  then 
the  envoy  looks  at  him  with  a  fearful  question  in 
his  eyes,  but  the  Duke's  face  immediately  resumes 
its  mask  of  stone. 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 
1842 

•    That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?  I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 


176  BROWNING 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  'twas  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "Her  mantle  laps 

"Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 

"Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

"Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :"  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one !  My  favour  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good  !  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.    Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

"Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 

"Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  177 

■—E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.    Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew;  I  gave  commands ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.    Will't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.    Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me ! 

To  turn  from  My  Last  Duchess  to  Count  Gis- 
mond is  like  coming  out  of  a  damp  cellar  into  God's 
own  sunshine.  Originally  Browning  called  these 
two  poems  Italy  and  France;  but  he  later  fell  madly 
in  love  with  Italy,  and  I  suppose  could  not  bear  to 
have  so  cold-blooded  a  tragedy  represent  the  country 
graven  on  his  heart.  The  charm  and  brightness  of 
Count  Gismond  are  properly  connected  with  one  of 
the  loveliest  towns  in  the  world,  the  old  city  of  Aix 
in  Provence,  a  jewel  on  the  hills  rising  from  the 
Mediterranean  Sea. 

Gismond  is  Browning's  hero.  He  is  the  resolute 
man  who  does  not  hesitate,  who  makes  himself  in- 
stantly master  of  the  situation,  who  appears  like 


178  BROWNING 

Lohengrin  in  the  moment  of  Elsa's  sharp  distress,  a 
messenger  from  Heaven. 

Or,  if  virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

When  the  lady  was  publicly  accused  by  the 
scoundrel  Gauthier,  I  suppose  many  men  said,  "What 
a  pity  that  so  fair  a  woman  should  be  so  foul!" 
Others  said  gravely,  "This  matter  ought  to  be  judi- 
cially examined."  Gismond  was  the  only  man  who 
realised  that  a  defenseless  orphan  was  insulted,  and 
the  words  were  hardly  out  of  Gauthier's  mouth  when 
he  received  "the  fist's  reply  to  the  filth."  The  lovers 
walked  away  from  the  "shouting  multitude,"  the 
fickle,  cowardly,  contemptible  public,  who  did  not 
dare  to  defend  the  lady  in  her  need,  but  had  lungs 
enough  for  the  victor,  whoever  he  might  be.  It  is 
pleasant  to  notice  the  prayer  of  the  lady  for  the 
dead  Gauthier.  "I  hope  his  soul  is  in  heaven."  This 
is  no  mere  Christian  forgiveness.  Gauthier  had 
proved  to  be  the  means  of  her  life-happiness.  Had 
it  not  been  for  his  shameful  accusation,  she  would 
never  have  met  Gismond.  Out  of  her  agony  came 
her  richest  blessing. 

All  this  happened  years  ago,  but  when  her  hus- 
band appears  with  the  children  she  tells  him  a  white 
lie.    "I  have  just  been  boasting  to  Adela  about  the 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  179 

skill  of  my  hunting  hawk."  She  has  been  doing 
nothing  of  the  kind;  but  she  can  not  talk  about  the 
great  event  of  her  life  before  the  children. 

COUNT  GISMOND 

AIX  IN  PROVENCE 

1842 


Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me  I 

Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 
Chose  time  and  place  and  company 

To  suit  it ;  when  he  struck  at  length 

My  honour,  'twas  with  all  his  strength. 


II 


And  doubtlessly  ere  he  could  draw 
All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed  1 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 


Ill 


I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 
To  please  themselves ;  'twas  all  their  deed ; 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face ; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 


180  BROWNING 

IV 

They,  too,  so  beauteous  !    Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 
As  I  do.    E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head! 

V 

But  no  :  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 

My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 
The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 

A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 
My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 
And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs — 

VI 
And  come  out  on  the  morning-troop 

Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 
And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 

Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 
That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 
Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun)  — 

VII 
And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 

And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 
Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  queen's-day — Oh  I  think  the  cause 
Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 
Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud ! 

VIII 
However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down ;  'twas  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but  .  .  .  there,  'twill  last 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  181 

No  long  time     ...     the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain ! 

IX 
See !  Gismond's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys  :  I  can  proceed. 
Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 

Forth  boldly — to  my  face,  indeed — - 
But  Gauthier,  and  he  thundered  "Stay  1" 
And  all  stayed.    "Bring  no  crowns,  I  say ! 

X 
"Bring  torches  !    Wind  the  penance-sheet 

"About  her  !  Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 
"Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet ! 

"Shall  she  whose  body  I  embraced 
"A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day? 
"For  honour's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say  1" 

XI 
I  ?    What  I  answered  ?    As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?    No  more  says  the  soul. 

XII 
Till  out  strode  Gismond ;  then  I  knew 

That  I  was  saved.    I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 
Himself  to  Satan ;  who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end? 

XIII 
He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 
Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 


182  BROWNING 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  there.    North,  South, 
East,  West,  I  looked.    The  lie  was  dead, 
And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

,  XIV 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  of  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event : 

God  took  that  on  him — I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part :  I  did. 

XV 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 

His  armourer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 
The  while !    His  foot    .    „    .    my  memory  leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

XVI 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground : 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

O'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

XVII 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said  "Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

"In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 
"From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death ! 

"Say,  hast  thou  lied?"    And,  "I  have  lied 

"To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  183 

XVIII 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 
— What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  for  ever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.    Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

XIX 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world ;  and  scarce  I  felt 
His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt : 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

XX 

So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 
Return.    My  cousins  have  pursued 

Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
I  vexed  them.    Gauthier's  dwelling-place 
God  lighten  !    May  his  soul  find  grace  1 

XXI 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow ;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 

Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it    .     .     .     Gismond  here? 
And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back  ? 

I  just  was  telling  Adela 

How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 

The  Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister  differs  from 
most  of  the  Dramatic  Monologues  in  not  being  ad- 


184  BROWNING 

dressed  to  a  listener;  but  the  difference  is  more  ap- 
parent than  real;  for  the  other  person  is  in  plain 
view  all  the  time,  and  the  Soliloquy  would  have  no 
point  were  it  not  for  the  peaceful  activities  of  Friar 
Lawrence.  This  poem,  while  it  deals  ostensibly  with 
the  lives  of  only  two  monks,  gives  us  a  glimpse  into 
the  whole  monastic  system.  When  a  number  of  men 
retired  into  a  monastery  and  shut  out  the  world 
forever,  certain  sins  and  ambitions  were  annihilated, 
while  others  were  enormously  magnified.  All  out- 
side interests  vanished;  but  sin  remained,  for  it 
circulates  in  the  human  heart  as  naturally  as  blood 
in  the  body.  The  cloister  was  simply  a  little  world, 
with  the  nobleness  and  meanness  of  human  nature 
exceedingly  conspicuous.  When  the  men  were  once 
enclosed  in  the  cloister  walls,  they  knew  that  they 
must  live  in  that  circumscribed  spot  till  the  separa- 
tion of  death.  Naturally  therefore  political  ambi- 
tions, affections,  envies,  jealousies,  would  be  writ 
large;  human  nature  would  display  itself  in  a  man- 
ner most  interesting  to  a  student,  if  only  he  could 
live  there  in  a  detached  way.  This  is  just  what 
Browning  tries  to  do;  he  tries  to  live  imaginatively 
with  the  monks,  and  to  practise  his  profession  as  the 
Chronicler  of  Life. 

The  only  way  to  realise  what  the  monastic  life 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  185 

really  meant  would  be  to  imagine  a  small  modern 
college  situated  in  the  country,  and  the  passage  of 
a  decree  that  not  a  single  student  should  leave  the 
college  grounds  until  his  body  was  committed  to  the 
tomb.  The  outside  interests  of  the  world  would 
quickly  grow  dim  and  eventually  vanish ;  and  every- 
thing would  be  concentrated  within  the  community. 
I  suppose  that  the  passions  of  friendship,  hatred, 
and  jealousy  would  be  prodigiously  magnified.  There 
must  have  been  friendships  among  the  monks  of  the 
middle  ages  compared  to  which  our  boasted  college 
friendships  are  thin  and  pale;  and  there  must  have 
been  frightful  hatreds  and  jealousies.  In  all  com- 
munities there  are  certain  persons  that  get  on  the 
nerves  of  certain  others;  the  only  way  to  avoid  this 
acute  suffering  is  to  avoid  meeting  the  person  who 
causes  it.  But  imagine  a  cloister  where  dwells  a 
man  you  simply  can  not  endure :  every  word  he 
says,  every  motion  he  makes,  every  single  manner- 
ism of  walk  and  speech  is  intolerable.  Now  you 
must  live  with  this  man  until  one  of  you  dies :  you 
must  sit  opposite  to  him  at  meals,  you  can  not  escape 
constant  contact.  Your  only  resource  is  profane 
soliloquies:  but  if  you  have  a  sufficiently  ugly  dis- 
position, you  can  revenge  yourself  upon  him  in  a 
thousand  secret  ways. 


186  BROWNING 

Friar  Lawrence  unconsciously  and  innocently 
fans  the  flames  oi  hat  red  in  our  speaker's  heart, 
simply  because  he  does  not  dream  of  the  effect  he 
produces.      Every   time  he  talks  at   table  about  the 

weather,  the  cork-crop,  Latin  names,  and  other 
trivialities,  the  man  sitting  Opposite  to  him  would 
like  to  dash  his  plate  in  his  face:  every  time  Friar 
Lawrence  potters  around  among  his  roses,  the  other 
looking  down  from  his  window,  with  a  face  distorted 

with  hate,  would  like  to  kill  him  with  a  glance.  Poor 
Lawrence  drives  our  soliloquist  mad  with  his  de- 
liberate table  manners,  with  his  deliberate  method 
of  speech,  with  his  care  about  his  own  goblet  and 
spoon.  .And  all  the  time  Lawrence  believes  that  his 
enemy  loves  him  ! 

From  another  point  o\'  view,  this  poem  resembles 

My  Last  Duchess  in  thai  it  is  a  revelation  oi  the 

speaker's  heart.  We  know  nothingabout  Friar  Law- 
rence except  what  his  deadly  enemy  tells  us;  but  it 
is  quite  clear  that  Lawrence  is  a  dear  old  man,  inno- 
cent as  a  child;  while  the  speaker,  simply  in  giving 
his  testimony  against  him,  reveals  a  heart  jealous, 
malicious,  lustful;  he  is  like  a  thoroughly  bad  boy 
at  school,  with  a  pornographic  book  carefully  con- 
cealed. Just  at  the  moment  when  his  rage  and 
hatred  reach  a  climax,  the  vesper  bell  sounds;  and 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  187 

the  speaker,  who  is  an  intensely  strict  formalist  and 
ritualist,  presents  to  us  an  abusing  spectacle;  for 
out  of  the  same  mouth  proceed  blessing  and  cursing. 

SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER 

1842 

I 

Gr-r-r — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence  ! 

Water  your  damned  flower -pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  L.awrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  k  ill  you  ! 
What?  3rour  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames  ! 
II 
At  the  meal  we  sit  together : 

Salve  tibi!    I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop:  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What's  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley"? 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout? 
Ill 
Whew !    We'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf ! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 
Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 

(He-he!    There  his  lily  snaps!) 


188  BROWNING 

c    IV 

Saint,  forsooth  !f      While  brown  Dolores 
Squats  outsidf  >  the  Convent  bank 

With  Sanchich?if  telling  stories, 
Steeping  treesses  in  the  tank, 

Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horsehairs, 
— Can't  I  sc'e  his  dead  eye  glow, 

Bright  as  'twe  re  a  Barbary  corsair's? 
(That  is,  if.  he'd  let  it  show!) 

i  V 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife/and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

'\s  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
y  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

VI 

Oh,  those  melons?    If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast !  so  nice ! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers  ?    None  double 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange! — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly ! 

VII 

There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 
Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 

Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 
One  sure,  if  another  fails : 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  189 

If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee? 

VIII 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  grey  paper  with  blunt  type ! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe : 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't? 

IX 

Or,  there's  Satan  ! — one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of  !    Hy,  Zy,  Hine     .    .    . 
'St,  there's  Vespers  !    Plena  gratia 

Ave,  Virgo !    Gr-r-r — you  swine ! 

Everybody  loves  Browning's  Ghent  to  Aix  poem. 
Even  those  who  can  not  abide  the  poet  make  an  ex- 
ception here ;  and  your  thorough-going  Browningite 
never  outgrows  this  piece.  It  is  the  greatest  horse- 
back poem  in  the  literature  of  the  world :  compared 
to  this,  Paul  Revere' s  Ride  is  the  amble  of  a  splay- 
footed nag.  It  sounds  as  though  it  had  been  writ- 
ten in  the  saddle:  but  it  was  really  composed  dur- 


190  BROWNING 

ing  a  hot  day  on  the  deck  of  a  vessel  in  the  Med- 
iterranean, and  written  off  on  the  flyleaf  of  a  printed 
book  that  the  poet  held  in  his  hand.  Poets  are  al- 
ways most  present  with  the  distant,  as  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing said ;  and  Browning,  while  at  sea,  thought  with 
irresistible  longing  of  his  good  horse  eating  his 
head  off  in  the  stable  at  home.  Everything  about 
this  poem  is  imaginary;  there  never  had  been  any 
such  good  news  brought,  and  it  is  probable  that  no 
horse  could  cover  the  distance  in  that  time. 

But  the  magnificent  gallop  of  the  verse :  the  change 
from  moonset  to  sunrise :  the  scenery  rushing 
by :  the  splendid  spirit  of  horse  and  man :  and  the 
almost  insane  joy  of  the  rider  as  he  enters  Aix — 
these  are  more  true  than  history  itself.  Browning 
is  one  of  our  greatest  poets  of  motion — whether  it 
be  the  glide  of  a  gondola,  the  swift  running  of  the 
Marathon  professional  Pheidippides,  the  steady  ad- 
vance of  the  galleys  over  the  sea  in  Paracelsus,  the 
sharp  staccato  strokes  of  the  horse's  hoofs  through 
the  Metidja,  or  the  swinging  stride  of  the  students 
as  they  carry  the  dead  grammarian  up  the  moun- 
tain. Not  only  do  the  words  themselves  express  the 
sound  of  movement;  but  the  thought,  in  all  these 
great  poems  of  motion,  travels  steadily  and  naturally 
with  the  advance.     It  is  interesting  to  compare  a 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  191 

madly-rushing  poem  like  Ghent  to  Aix  with  the  ab- 
solute calm  of  Andrea  del  Sarto.  It  gives  one  an 
appreciation  of  Browning's  purely  technical  skill. 

No  one  has  ever,  so  far  as  I  know,  criticised  Ghent 
to  Aix  adversely  except  Owen  Wister's  Virginian; 
and  his  strictures  are  hypercritical.  As  Roland 
threw  his  head  back  fiercely  to  scatter  the  spume- 
flakes,  it  would  be  easy  enough  for  the  rider  to  see 
the  eye-sockets  and  the  bloodfull  nostrils.  Every 
one  has  noticed  how  a  horse  will  do  the  ear-shift, 
putting  one  ear  forward  and  one  back  at  the  same 
moment.  Browning  has  an  imaginative  reason  for 
it.  One  ear  is  pushed  forward  to  listen  for  danger 
ahead;  the  other  bent  back,  to  catch  his  master's 
voice.  Was  there  ever  a  greater  study  in  passion- 
ate cooperation  between  man  and  beast  than  this 
splendid  poem? 

"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 
GHENT  TO  AIX" 


1845 


I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 

"Good  speed !"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew ; 

"Speed !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


192  BROWNING 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 

At  Diifreld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime, 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time !" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay  spur  ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  193 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight !" 

"How  they'll  greet  us !" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or 

good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent. 

The  monologue  of  the  dying  Bishop  is  as  great 
a  masterpiece  as  My  Last  Duchess;  it  has  not  a  su- 
perfluous word,  and  in  only  a  few  lines  gives  us  the 
spirit  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  Ruskin  said  that 
Browning  is  "unerring  in  every  sentence  he  writes 
about  the  Middle  Ages,  always  vital,  right,  and  pro- 


194  BROWNING 

found."  He  added,  "I  know  no  other  piece  of  mod- 
ern English,  prose  or  poetry,  in  which  there  is  so 
much  told,  as  in  these  lines,  of  the  Renaissance 
spirit."  Yet  Browning  had  never  seen  Rome  until 
a  few  months  before  this  poem  was  published.  It 
is  an  example,  not  of  careful  study,  but  of  the  in- 
explicable divination  of  genius.  Browning  permits 
a  delirious  old  Bishop  to  talk  a  few  lines,  and  a 
whole  period  of  history  is  written. 

The  church  of  Saint  Prassede  is  in  a  dirty  little 
alley  in  Rome,  hard  by  the  great  church  of  Saint 
Maria  Maggiore.  You  push  through  the  group  of 
filthy,  importunate  beggars,  open  a  leather  door,  and 
you  drop  from  the  twentieth  to  the  sixteenth  century. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  ornate  churches  in  Rome;  the 
mosaic  angels  in  the  choir  are  precisely  as  the  poet 
describes  them.  The  tomb  of  the  imaginary  Gan- 
dolf  may  be  identified  with  a  Bishop's  tomb  on  the 
south  side  of  the  church,  and  the  Latin  inscription 
under  it,  while  it  does  not  contain  the  form  "eluces- 
cebat,"  is  not  pure  Tully,  but  rather  belongs  to  the 
Latin  of  Ulpian's  time.  The  recumbent  figure  is 
in  exact  accord  with  the  description  by  Browning. 

Skeptics  are  essential  to  the  welfare  of  the 
Church;  it  is  only  in  periods  of  sharp,  skilful  hos- 
tility that  the  Church  becomes  pure.    In  the  Middle 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  197 

Ages,  when  it  ran  riot  with  power,  there  wert 
plenty  of  churchmen  as  corrupt  as  our  dying  man. 
His  love  for  a  Greek  manuscript  is  as  sensual  as  his 
love  for  his  mistress;  and  having  lived  a  life  of 
physical  delight,  it  is  natural  that  his  last  thoughts 
should  concern  themselves  with  the  abode  of  his 
body  rather  than  with  the  destination  of  his  soul. 
Of  course  his  mind  is  wandering,  or  he  would  not 
speak  with  quite  such  shameless  cynicism.  Brown- 
ing has  made  him  talk  of  Saint  Praxed  at  his  ser- 
mon on  the  mount,  in  order  to  prove  the  delirium. 
S.  Praxed  was  a  female  saint. 

The  constant  confusion  of  Greek  mythology  with 
the  ritual  of  the  Christian  church  is  a  characteristic 
feature  both  of  this  poem  and  of  the  period  of  his- 
tory it  represents. 

Kipling  is  particularly  fond  of  this  work,  and  it 
will  be  remembered  what  use  he  makes  of  it  in 
Stalky  and  Co. 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT  SAINT 
PRAXED'S  CHURCH 

Rome,  15 — 
1845 
Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity ! 
Draw  round  my  bed  :  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 
Nephews — sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not !   Well — 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 


19'  BROWNING 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 

What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 

And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 

And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 

Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?"    Peace,  peace  seems  all. 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.    I  fought 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know : 

— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care ; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same ! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk : 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  rny  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands : 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

— Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 

Put  me  where  I  mayjook  at  him !    True  peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless :  how  I  earned  the  prize  1 

Draw  close :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

j— What  then?    So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were 

missed ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death?    Go  dig 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  197 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I !  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft, 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst ! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?    Black— 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !    How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !    What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then! 

'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve. 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas ! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 


198  BROWNING 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs  ? 

— That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  masters  ?    Ulpian  serves  his  need ! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke  1 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's-work : 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet. 

— Aha,  elucescebat  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons !    Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas !    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  199 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?"    There,  leave  me,  there  1 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death — ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it !    Stone — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble !   Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world ! 

Well  go  !    I  bless  ye.    Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row :  and,  going,  turn  }rour  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 

Old  Gandolf,  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 

Browning  gives  us  a  terrible  study  of  jealousy  in 
The  Laboratory.  The  chemist  says  nothing,  but  the 
contrast  between  the  placid  face  of  the  old  scientist, 
intent  only  upon  his  work,  and  the  wildly  passionate 
countenance  of  the  little  woman  with  him,  is  suffi- 
ciently impressive.  Those  were  the  days  when  mur- 
der was  a  fine  art.  She  plans  the  public  death  of 
the  woman  she  hates  so  that  the  lover  will  never 
be  able  to  forget  the  dying  face.  Radiant  in  queenly 
beauty,  with  the  smile  of  satisfaction  that  accom- 


200  BROWNING 

parries  the  inner  assurance  of  beauty  and  power — 
in  a  moment  she  will  be  convulsively  rolling  on  the 
floor,  her  swollen  face  purplish-black  with  the  poi- 
son, her  mouth  emitting  foam  like  a  mad  dog.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  the  little  murderess  intends  to  fol- 
low her  rival  to  the  tomb.  She  has  given  the  chem- 
ist her  entire  fortune  as  pay  for  the  drop  of  poison; 
he  may  kiss  her,  if  he  likes !  All  shame,  all  womanly 
reserve  are  gone :  what  does  anything  matter  now  ? 
It  is  a  true  study  of  jealousy,  because  the  little  crea- 
ture does  not  dream  of  attacking  the  man  who  de- 
serted her;  all  her  hellish  energy  is  directed  against 
the  woman.  Indeed  the  poison  that  she  buys  will 
not  transform  her  rival  more  completely  than  the 
dreadful  poison  of  jealousy  has  already  trans- 
formed her  from  what  she  was  to  what  she  is. 

The  language  and  metre  fit  the  thought.    Tenny- 
son passed  a  severe  judgment  on  the  first  line 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly 

saying  that  it  lacked  smoothness,  that  it  was  a  very 
difficult  mouthful.  But  is  this  not  intentional  and 
absolutely  right?  The  woman  is  speaking  slowly 
with  compressed  lips,  her  voice  convulsed  with  ter- 
rible hatred  and  the  terrible  resolution  for  revenge. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  201 

THE  LABORATORY 

ANCIEN   REGIME 

1844 

I 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  thro'  these  faint  smokes  curh'ng  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's-smithy — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee? 

II 

He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 
Where  they  are,  what  they  do :  they  believe  my  tears  flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for  them ! — I  am  here. 

Ill 

Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder, — I  am  not  in  haste ! 
Better  sit  thus,  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 
Than  go  where  men  wait  me  and  dance  at  the  King's. 

IV 

That  in  the  mortar — you  call  it  a  gum? 

Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come  1 

And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 

Sure  to  taste  sweetly, — is  that  poison  too? 

V 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 
What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures ! 
To  carry  pure  death  in  an  earring,  a  casket, 
A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket ! 


202  BROWNING 

__yi__ 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give, 
And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live! 
But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise,  with  her  head 
And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should  drop 
dead! 

VII 

Quick — is  it  finished  ?    The  colour's  too  grim ! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer ! 

VIII 

What  a  drop !    She's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me ! 
That's  why  she  ensnared  him :  this  never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, — say,  "no !" 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

IX 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered,  I  brought 

My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 

Could  I  keep  them  one  half  minute  fixed,    she  would  fall 

Shrivelled ;  she  fell  not ;  yet  this  does  it  all ! 

X 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain ; 
Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain: 
Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace- 
He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face! 

XI 

Is  it  done?    Take  my  mask  off!    Nay,  be  not  morose; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close : 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  fee ! 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me? 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  203 

XII 

Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  ma}r  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will ! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it — next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's ! 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and  Andrea  del  Sarto  are  both 
great  art  poems,  and  both  in  striking  contrast.  The 
former  is  dynamic,  the  latter  static.  The  tumultuous 
vivacity  of  the  gamin  who  became  a  painter  con- 
trasts finely  with  the  great  technician,  a  fellow  al- 
most damned  in  a  fair  wife.  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  was 
a  street  mucker,  like  Gavroche;  he  unconsciously 
learned  to  paint  portraits  by  the  absolute  necessity 
of  studying  human  faces  on  the  street.  Nothing 
sharpens  observation  like  this.  He  had  to  be  able 
to  tell  at  a  glance  whether  the  man  he  accosted  would 
give  him  food  or  a  kick.  When  they  took  him  to  the 
cloister,  he  obtained  a  quite  new  idea  about  religion. 
He  naturally  judged  that,  as  he  judged  everything 
else  in  life,  from  the  practical  point  of  view.  Here- 
tofore, like  many  small  boys,  he  had  rather  despised 
religion,  and  thought  the  monks  were  fools.  "Don't 
you  believe  it,"  he  cries :  "there  is  a  lot  in  religion. 
You  get  free  clothes,  free  shelter,  three  meals  a  day, 
and  you  don't  have  to  work !  Why,  it's  the  easiest 
thing  I  know."     The  monks  discovered  his  talent 


204  BROWNING 

with  pencil  and  brush,  and  they  made  him  decorate 
the  chapel.  When  the  work  was  done,  he  called 
them  in.  To  their  amazement  and  horror,  the  saints 
and  angels,  instead  of  being  ideal  faces,  were  the 
living  portraits  of  the  familiar  figures  about  the 
cloister.  "Why,  there's  the  iceman!  there's  the 
laundress!"  He  rebelled  when  they  told  him  this 
was  wicked :  he  said  it  was  all  a  part  of  God's  world, 
that  the  business  of  the  artist  was  to  interpret  life; 
he  wished  they  would  let  him  enter  the  pulpit,  take 
the  Prior's  place,  and  preach  a  sermon  that  would 
make  them  all  sit  up. 

The  philosophy  of  aesthetics  has  never  been  more 
truly  or  more  succinctly  stated  than  in  these  lines : 

Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 

(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  nought  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents : 

That's  somewhat :  and  you'll  find  the  soul  you  have 

missed, 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 

Contemplation  of  beautiful  objects  in  nature,  art, 
and  literature,  which  perhaps  at  first  sight  have  no 
significance,  gradually  awakens  in  our  own  hearts  a 
dawning  sense  of  what  Beauty  may  mean;  and  thus 
enlarges  and  develops  our  minds,  and  makes  them 
susceptible  to  the  wonder  and  glory  of  life. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  205 

The  relation  of  art  to  life — art  being  the  teacher 
that  makes  us  understand  life — is  perfectly  well  un- 
derstood by  Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 

For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see. 

If  one  stands  to-day  in  the  Ancient  and  Modern 
Gallery  in  Florence,  and  contemplates  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi's  masterpiece,  The  Coronation  of  the  Virgin, 
and  reads  the  lines  about  it  in  this  poem,  one  will  get 
a  new  idea  of  the  picture.  It  is  a  representation  of 
the  painter's  whole  nature,  half  genius,  half  mucker 
— the  painting  is  a  glory  of  form  and  color,  and 
then  in  the  corner  the  artist  had  the  assurance  to 
place  himself  in  his  monk's  dress  among  the  saints 
and  angels,  where  he  looks  as  much  out  of  place  as 
a  Bowery  Boy  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  drawing-room. 
Not  content  with  putting  himself  in  the  picture,  he 
stuck  a  Latin  tag  on  himself,  which  means,  "This 
fellow  did  the  job." 

Browning  loves  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  in  spite  of  the 
man's  impudence  and  debauchery;  because  the 
painteif  loved  life,  had  a  tremendous  zest  for  it,  and 
was  not  ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm.  The  words 
he  speaks  came  from  the  p^t's  own  heart : 


X 


206  BROWNING 

The  world  and  life's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream.  .  .  . 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves !    This  world's  no  blot  for  us, 
Nor  blank ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

The  change  from  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  to  Andrea  del 
Sarto  is  the  change  from  a  blustering  March  day  to 
a  mild  autumn  twilight.  The  original  picture  in 
Florence  which  inspired  the  poem  represents  Andrea 
and  his  wife  sitting  together,  while  she  is  holding 
the  letter  from  King  Francis.  This  is  a  poem  of 
acquiescence,  as  the  other  is  a  poem  of  protest,  and 
never  was  language  more  fittingly  adapted  to  the 
mood  in  each  instance.  One  can  usually  recognise 
Andrea's  pictures  clear  across  the  gallery  rooms ;  he 
has  enveloped  them  all  in  a  silver-grey  gossamer 
mist,  and  in  some  extraordinary  manner  Browning 
has  contrived  to  clothe  his  poem  in  the  same  diaph- 
anous garment.  It  is  a  poem  of  twilight,  of  calm, 
of  failure  in  success.  Andrea's  pictures  are  superior 
technically  to  those  of  his  great  contemporaries — 
Rafael,  Michel  Angelo,  Leonardo  da  Vinci — but 
their  imperfect  works  have  a  celestial  glory,  the 
glory  of  aspiration,  absent  from  his  perfect  produc- 
tions.   His  work  indeed  is, 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 
Dead  perfection.^oe'1  ^re. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  207 

It  is  natural,  that  he,  whose  paintings  show  per- 
fection of  form  without  spirit,  should  have  married 
a  woman  of  physical  beauty  devoid  of  soul.  She 
has  ruined  him,  but  she  could  not  have  ruined  him 
had  he  been  a  different  man.  He  understands  her, 
however,  in  the  quiet  light  of  his  own  failure.  He 
tells  her  she  must  not  treat  him  so  badly  that  he 
can  not  paint  at  all ;  and  adds  the  necessary  explana- 
tion that  his  ceasing  to  paint  would  stop  her  supplies 
of  cash.  For  although  it  is  incomprehensible  to 
her,  people  are  willing  to  give  large  sums  of  money 
for  her  ridiculous  husband's  ridiculous  daubs.  His 
mind,  sensitive  to  beauty,  is  drunk  with  his  wife's 
loveliness  of  face  and  form;  and  like  all  confirmed 
drunkards,  he  can  not  conquer  himself  now,  though 
otherwise  he  knows  it  means  death  and  damnation. 
He  has  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  whole  range  of 
his  powers,  and  of  his  limitations.  He  can  not  help 
feeling  pride  in  his  marvellous  technique,  that  he 
can  do  what  other  men  dream  of  doing;  but  he 
knows  that  without  aspiration  the  soul  is  dead. 

Poor  Andrea !  History  has  treated  him  harshly. 
He  is  known  throughout  all  time  as  "the  tailor's 
son,"  and  Browning  has  given  him  in  this  immortal 
poem  a  condemnation  that  much  of  his  work  does 
not  really  deserve.    For  there  is  inspiration  in  many 


208  BROWNING 

of  Andrea's  Madonnas.  Browning,  with  his  fixed 
idea  of  the  glory  of  the  imperfect,  the  divine  evi- 
dence of  perpetual  development,  could  not  forgive 
Andrea  for  being  called  the  "faultless  painter." 
Thus  Browning  has  made  of  him  a  horrible  example, 
has  used  him  merely  as  the  text  for  a  sermon. 

There  was  just  enough  truth  to  give  Browning 
his  opportunity.  The  superiority  of  Rafael  over 
Andrea  lies  precisely  in  the  aspiration  of  the  for- 
mer's work.  Schopenhauer  says  the  whole  Chris- 
tian religion  is  in  the  face  of  Rafael's  Saint  Cecilia, 
"an  entire  and  certain  gospel."  Andrea's  virgins 
have  more  of  the  beauty  of  this  world:  Rafael's 
have  the  beauty  of  holiness. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
(called  "the  faultless  painter") 
1855 
But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia ;  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,— but  to-morrow,  Love ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  209 

As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.    Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 
It  saves  a  model.    So !  keep  looking  so — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds ! 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so  sweet — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While  she  looks — no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 
You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 
There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 
A  common  greyness  silvers  everything, — 
All  in  a  twilight,  37ou  and  I  alike 
— You,  at  the  point  of  3rour  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at  every  point; 
My  3'outh,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 
There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 
That  length  of  con  vent- wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 
Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 


210  BROWNING 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.    Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber  for  example — turn  your  head — 

All  that's  behind  us !    You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  things  should  be — ■ 

Behold  Madonna ! — I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  211 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men !  at  a  word — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.    Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of  that? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-grey 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain, 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

"Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  !"   No  doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm !  and  I  could  alter  it : 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch — 


212  BROWNING 


Out  of  me,  out  of  me!    And  wherefore  out? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you ! 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  I 

Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain. 

"The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

"Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo ! 

"Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.    All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self ; 

The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power- 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.    At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 

But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak !   That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 


/ 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  213 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know — 

'Tis  done  and  past;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  grey, 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart 

The  triumph  was — to  reach  and  stay  there ;  since 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 

"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 

"The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

"But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife — " 

Men  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 


214  BROWNING 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

"Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

"Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

"As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

"Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours !" 

To  Rafael's ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  1 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out  1 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(WThat  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 

Is,  whether  you're — not  grateful — but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  indeed ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !    Another  smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  love, — come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me:  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.    Must  you  go? 

That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 

Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me?    Those  loans? 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  215 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me !  have  you  more  to  spend? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth? 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 

The  grey  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  3'ou  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  yours  this  time !    I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you?    Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis ! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said, 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 
And  I  have  labou  ed  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.    Some  good  son 


216  BROWNING 

Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try ! 

No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.    Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 

This  must  suffice  me  here.    What  would  one  have? 

In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 

To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 

While  I  have  mine !    So — still  they  overcome 

Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !    Go,  my  Love. 

Karshish  and  Cleon  are  studies  of  the  early  days 
of  Christianity.  Each  man  writes  a  letter — one  to 
a  professor,  one  to  a  king — which  reveals  both  his 
own  nature  and  the  steady  advance  of  the  kingdom 
of  God.  The  contrast  between  the  scientist  and  the 
man  of  letters  is  not  favorable  to  the  latter.  Kar- 
shish is  an  ideal  scientist,  with  a  naturally  skeptical 
mind,  yet  wide  open,  willing  to  learn  from  any  and 
every  source,  thankful  for  every  new  fact;  Cleon  is 
an  intellectual  snob.  His  mind  is  closed  by  its  own 
culture,  and  he  regards  it  as  absurd  that  any  man  in 
humble  circumstances  can  teach  him  anything. 
Learning,  which  has  made  the  scientist  modest,  has 
made  Cleon  arrogant.  Such  is  the  difference  be- 
tween the  ideal  man  of  science,  and  the  typical  man 
of  culture. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  217 

Young  Karshish  was  the  best  student  in  his  de- 
partment at  the  university ;  he  has  won  a  travelling 
fellowship,  and  writes  letters  home  to  Professor 
Abib,  the  Dean  of  the  Graduate  School.  This  is 
the  twenty-second  letter,  and  although  we  have  not 
seen  the  others,  we  may  easily  conjecture  their  style 
and  contents.  They  resemble  Darwin's  method  of 
composition  describing  his  tour  around  the  world — 
one  fact  is  noted  accurately  and  then  another.  This 
particular  letter  is  entrusted  to  a  messenger  who 
had  the  pink-eye;  the  young  doctor  easily  cured 
him,  and  the  man  having  no  money,  begged  to  give 
some  service.  He  winks  his  eyes  gladly  in  the  strong 
sunlight  which  had  hurt  him  so  cruelly  until  the 
doctor  came  to  his  relief.  Very  well!  he  shall  run 
with  an  epistle. 

Karshish  has  met  Lazarus :  and  it  is  significant  of 
Browning's  method  that  it  is  not  the  resurrection 
from  the  grave  which  interests  him,  nor  what  hap- 
pened to  Lazarus  in  the  tomb;  it  is  the  profound 
spiritual  change  in  the  man.  Lazarus  does  not  act 
like  a  faker;  he  is  not  sensational,  does  not  care 
whether  you  believe  his  story  or  not,  is  a  thoroughly 
quiet,  intelligent,  sensible  man.  Only  his  conduct 
has  ceased  to  be  swayed  by  any  selfish  interest,  and 
there  is  some  tremendous  force  working  in  his  life 


218  BROWNING 

that  puzzles  the  physician.  It  is  amusing  how  the 
latter  tries  to  shake  off  his  obsession,  how  he  tries 
to  persuade  himself  that  Lazarus  had  a  prolonged 
epileptic  fit,  or  that  he  is  now  mad ;  how  he  tries  to 
interest  himself  once  more  in  the  fauna  and  flora 
of  the  country.  Impossible!  the  story  of  Lazarus 
dominates  him. 

His  letter  is  naturally  full  of  apologies  for  writing 
to  the  great  Abib  on  such  a  theme.  He  is  afraid 
Abib  will  be  disgusted  with  him,  will  call  him  home, 
as  a  disgrace  to  the  university  he  represents.  What ! 
my  favorite  student,  carefully  trained  in  science,  to 
swallow  the  story  of  the  first  madman  or  swindler 
he  meets  ?  A  man  raised  from  the  dead  ?  Such  cases 
are  diurnal.  What  would  a  modern  professor  think 
if  one  of  his  travelling  fellows  wrote  home  from 
South  America  that  he  had  met  a  man  raised  from 
the  dead,  and  was  really  impressed  by  his  story? 
His  fellowship  would  be  instantly  taken  away  from 
him. 

He  anticipates  Abib's  suggestions.  If  you  think 
there  is  really  anything  interesting  in  the  yarn,  why 
don't  you  seek  out  the  magician  who  brought  him 
back  to  life?  Oh,  naturally,  I  thought  of  that  the 
first  thing.     But  I  discovered  that  the  doctor  who 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  219 

wrought  the  cure  of  Lazarus  is  dead,  lost  his  life  in 
some  obscure  tumult. 

It  is  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  Karshish 
finally  brings  himself  to  write  what  will  seem  much 
worse  even  than  the  acceptance  of  the  story  of 
Lazarus.  But  something  impels  him  to  out  with  it. 
Lazarus  says — God  forgive  me  for  uttering  such 
nonsensical  blasphemy — that  the  doctor  who  cured 
him  was  no  doctor  at  all — was  .  .  .  was  .  .  . 
was  Almighty  God  Himself !  He  says  God  appeared 
on  the  earth  in  human  form,  that  Lazarus  knew  Him 
personally,  spoke  with  Him,  ate  meals  with  Him — 
and  then  suddenly  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling  at  his 
daring  to  write  such  trash  to  Abib,  he  tries  to  force 
his  mind  back  to  report  on  scientific  observations. 

He  thinks  indeed  he  has  ended  his  letter;  when 
the  stupendous  idea  of  Jesus  Christ  rushes  over  his 
mind  like  a  flood,  and  he  adds  a  postscript.  Would 
it  not  be  wonderful,  Professor,  if  Lazarus  were 
right?  If  the  Supreme  Force  we  recognise  were 
really  a  God  of  Love,  who  died  to  save  us?  The 
madman  saith  He  said  so :  it  is  strange,  ...  it 
is  strange    .    .    . 

And  so  we  leave  Karshish  in  a  muse :  but  surely 
he  is  not  far  from  the  Kingdom  of  God. 


220  BROWNING 

As  this  poem  indicates  the  manner  in  which  Chris- 
tianity in  the  early  days  spread  from  man  to  man, 
while  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt,  so  Cleon 
gives  us  the  picture  of  the  Gospel  as  carried  over 
the  world  by  Paul.  Cleon  in  his  own  distinguished 
person  sums  up  the  last  word  of  Greek  culture,  in  its 
intellectual  prowess,  its  serene  beauty,  its  many- 
sided  charm,  and  its  total  inability  to  save  the  world. 
Cleon  is  an  absolute  pessimist.  He  is  sincere ;  such 
cant  as  the  "choir  invisible"  means  nothing  to  him, 
for  death  will  turn  his  splendid  mind  into  a  pinch 
of  dust.  Death  is  far  more  horrible  to  poets  and 
artists  than  to  the  ignorant,  he  assures  the  king, 
who  had  thought  just  the  opposite  :  is  it  not  dreadful 
to  think  that  after  my  death  people  will  be  singing 
the  songs  that  I  have  written,  while  all  that  remains 
of  me  is  in  a  little  urn?  He  does  not  deceive  him- 
self with  phrases.  Death  is  the  end  of  us,  and  there- 
fore self-consciousness  is  a  mistake.  The  animals 
without  it  are  happier  and  better  than  we.  How 
terrible  it  is  to  think  that  a  man  like  me  who  has  de- 
veloped steadily  throughout  my  whole  life  should 
now  face  the  blank  wall  of  annihilation  just  when 
my  mind  is  at  its  best,  when  my  senses  are  most 
keen  to  profit  by  the  richness  and  wonder  of  life! 
The  thought  that  individual  development  is  thus 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  221 

meaningless  is  so  repugnant  not  merely  to  his  heart's 
desire  but  to  his  mental  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
that  it  has  sometimes  seemed  as  if  there  must  be  a 
future  life  where  the  soul  can  pursue  its  natural 
course  ahead.  But  he  dismisses  this  thought  as  im- 
possible; for  if  there  were  a  future  life,  I  should  be 
the  first  to  know  of  it.  It  would  certainly  have  been 
revealed  to  a  splendid  mind  like  mine.  It  is  the  moun- 
tain peak  that  catches  the  first  flush  of  the  dawn, 
not  the  valley :  it  is  the  topmost  branch  of  the  great 
tree  that  gets  the  first  whisper  of  the  coming  breeze. 
It  is  a  pity  that  Cleon  had  not  heard  the  Gospel.  I 
thank  thee,  O  Father,  that  Thou  hast  hidden  these 
things  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  hast  revealed 
them  unto  babes.  Even  so,  Father :  for  so  it  seemed 
good  in  Thy  sight.  It  was  not  through  men  like 
Cleon  that  the  Gospel  made  its  first  advance. 

His  postscript,  like  that  of  Karshish,  is  interest- 
ing, though  strikingly  different.  The  king  had  en- 
closed a  letter  to  Paul,  but  as  he  did'not  know  Paul's 
address,  he  wondered  if  Cleon  would  not  be  kind 
enough  to  see  that  the  evangelist  obtained  the  let- 
ter. Cleon  was  decidedly  vexed.  I  neither  know 
nor  care  where  Paul  may  be.  You  don't  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  Paul  knows  anything  I  don't 
know  ?    You  don't  suppose  anything  Paul  could  say 


222  BROWNING 

would  have  any  weight  for  men  like  me?  Oh,  I 
have  heard  of  him;  I  was  taking  a  constitutional  one 
day,  and  I  saw  a  little  group  of  persons  listening  to 
an  orator.  I  touched  a  man  on  the  shoulder,  and  I 
said,  What  is  that  idiot  talking  about?  And  he  re- 
plied that  the  man  said  that  a  person  named  Jesus 
Christ  had  risen  from  the  dead,  and  could  save  all 
those  who  believed  on  Him  from  death.  What  crazy 
nonsense  people  swallow!  So  Cleon  smiled  in  his 
wisdom  and  went  on  his  way.  But  through  the  lines 
of  his  speech  we  feel  the  rising  tide  of  Christianity, 
where 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 

Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING    THE    STRANGE    MEDICAL    EXPERIENCE    OF    KARSHISH, 
THE   ARAB   PHYSICIAN 

1855 

Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 

The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 

That  puff  of  vapour  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

— To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast ; 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain, 

Whereby  the  wily  vapour  fain  would  slip 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  223 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term,— 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 

To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such  : — 

The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with 

peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone — rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 
(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 
And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time. 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho: 
Thus  I  resume.    Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labour  unrepaid? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumours  of  a  marching  hitherward : 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear ; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls : 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy ; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou  laughest  here  1 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 
And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say ; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 


224  BROWNING 

Than  our  school  wots  of :  there's  a  spider  here 

Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 

Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back ; 

Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but  who  knows  his  mind, 

The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to? 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 

Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth 

Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 

Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 

In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.    Scalp-disease 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy — 

Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar — 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.    Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay :  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tangl 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness — or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth. 
So,  pardon  if — (lest  presently  I  lose 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight — for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth  ? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 
Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all ! 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  225 

Tis  but  a  case  of  mania — subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 
Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days : 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art, 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing  out-breaking  all  at  once 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 
So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 
(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 
Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 
The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 
That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first — the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 
That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 
— That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 
By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe: 
— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 
"Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 
Not  so  this  figment ! — not,  that  such  a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 
Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 
As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones  and  all ! 
For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 
The  man — it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 
Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 
The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 
As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 
As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 
Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 


226  BROWNING 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep ! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all  ? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 

To  bear  my  inquisition.    While  they  spoke, 

Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow, — told  the  case, — ; 

He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 

But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed :  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look,  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 

Should  find  a  treasure,— can  he  use  the  same 

With  straitened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved  small, 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one : 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here — we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty — 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven : 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds — 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  227 

'Tis  one !    Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact, — he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupour  at  its  very  littleness, 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupour  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death, — why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft ! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why — "  'tis  but  a  word,"  object — 

"A  gesture" — he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know ! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life: 


228  BROWNING 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze- 

"It  should  be"  balked  by  "here  it  cannot  be." 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 

His  sage  that  bade  him  "Rise"  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 

Admonishes :  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread ; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth : 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do : 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbour  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction?    Ardent  as  he  is — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  229 

"Be  it  as  God  please"  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should  : 

"How,  beast,"  said  I,  "this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once?" 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds — how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognises  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed : 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners, 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure — and  I  must  hold  my  peace ! 

Thou  wilt  object — Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits? 
Alas !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused — our  learning's  fate — of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 


230  BROWNING 

(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 

To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 

Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people — that's  their  wont ! 

On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ?    That's  their  way ! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies : 

But  take  one,  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 

In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 

Perhaps  not :  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 

'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 

As — God  forgive  me !  who  but  God  himself, 

Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile ! 

— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house, 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 

And  j'et  was  .  .  .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith — but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.    It  is  strange ! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth! 
Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  231 

Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 

And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 

Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 

Had  wrought  upon  me  first.    I  met  him  thus : 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 

Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.    Out  there  came 

A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 

Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing: 

Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.    So  we  met 

In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 

The  man  and  I.    I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 

Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 

To  this  ambiguous  Syrian — he  may  lose, 

Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 

Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 

For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine ; 

Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib  ;  dost  thou  think  ? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too — 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself  ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  mayst  conceive  of  mine, 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee  1" 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so :  it  is  strange. 

The  poem  Childe  Roland  is  unique  among  Brown- 
ing's monologues.  His  poetry  usually  is  of  the  noon- 
day and  the  market-place ;  but  this  might  have  been 
written  by  Coleridge,  or  Maeterlinck,  or  Edgar  Al- 
lan Poe.  It  has  indeed  the  "wizard  twilight  Cole- 
ridge knew."     The   atmosphere    is    uncanny   and 


232  BROWNING 

ghoul-haunted :  the  scenery  is  a  series  of  sombre  and 
horrible  imaginings.  No  consistent  allegory  can 
be  made  out  of  it,  for  which  fact  we  should  rejoice. 
It  is  a  poem,  not  a  sermon;  it  is  intended  to  stim- 
ulate the  imagination,  rather  than  awaken  the  con- 
science. And  as  we  accompany  the  knight  on  his 
lonely  and  fearful  journey,  we  feel  thrills  caused 
only  by  works  of  genius. 

The  poem  is  an  example  of  the  power  of  creative 
imagination.  Out  of  one  line  from  an  old  ballad 
quoted  by  Shakespeare,  Browning  has  built  up  a 
marvellous  succession  of  vivid  pictures.  The  twi- 
light deepens  as  Childe  Roland  advances;  one  can 
feel  the  darkness  coming  on. 

....    hands  unseen 
Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast. 

Although  the  poem  means  nothing  specifically  ex- 
cept a  triumphant  close  to  a  heart-shaking  experi- 
ence, the  close  is  so  solemnly  splendid  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  repress  a  shout  of  physical  exultation.  One 
lonely  man,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  Powers  of  the 
Air,  sends  out  an  honest  blast  of  defiance — the  indi- 
vidual will  against  the  malignant  forces  of  the  whole 
universe. 

What  happened  when  he  blew  his  horn?  Did  the 
awful  mountains  in  the  blood-red  sunset  dissolve  as 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  233 

the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  to  a  similar  sound?  Did 
the  round,  squat  Tower  vanish  like  a  dream-phan- 
tom? Or  was  the  sound  of  the  horn  the  last  breath 
of  the  hero?  If  we  believe  the  former,  then  Childe 
Roland  is  telling  his  experience  to  a  listener;  it  is 
the  song  of  the  man  "who  came  whither  he  went." 
If  the  latter,  which  seems  to  me  more  dramatic,  and 
more  like  Browning,  then  the  monologue  is  mur- 
mured by  the  solitary  knight  as  he  advances  on  his 
darkening  path. 

Three  entirely  different  interpretations  may  be 
made  of  the  poem.  First,  the  Tower  is  the  quest, 
and  Success  is  found  only  in  the  moment  of  Failure. 
Second,  the  Tower  is  the  quest,  and  when  found  is 
worth  nothing:  the  hero  has  spent  his  life  searching 
something  that  in  the  end  is  seen  to  be  only  a  round, 
squat,  blind  turret — for  such  things  do  men  throw 
away  their  lives !  Third,  the  Tower  is  not  the  quest 
at  all — it  is  damnation,  and  when  the  knight  turns 
aside  from  the  true  road  to  seek  the  Tower,  he  is 
a  lost  soul  steadily  slipping  through  increasing  dark- 
ness to  hell. 

Whilst  I  do  not  believe  this  third  interpretation, 
for  it  seems  to  me  contrary  to  the  whole  spirit  of 
the  piece,  it  is  surprising  that  if  one  reads  through 
the  poem  with  that  idea  and  none  other  in  mind,  how 


234  BROWNING 

much  support  can  be  found  for  it.  The  hoary  crip- 
ple is  the  devil,  meant  to  lead  us  into  temptation ;  and 
the  third  stanza  seems  for  the  moment  to  complete 
this  thought. 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract,  which,  all  agree 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.    Yet  acquiescingly 

I  did  turn  as  he  pointed : 

If  all  knew  that  the  ominous  tract  contained  the 
Dark  Tower,  why  was  the  knight  outside  of  it,  if 
the  Tower  were  his  quest?  He  turns  aside,  ac- 
quiescingly: he  has  given  up  a  life  of  noble  aspira- 
tion, and  now  hands  over  his  despairing  heart  in 
surrender  to  the  powers  of  darkness.  He  goes  on 
his  way  a  beaten  man,  only  hoping  that  the  end  may 
not  be  long  delayed. 

Much  in  the  letter  of  the  poem  may  support  this 
view;  but  the  whole  spirit  of  it  is  opposed  to  such 
an  interpretation,  and  the  ringing  close  does  not 
sound  like  spiritual  failure.  Nor  do  I  believe  in  the 
second  interpretation ;  for  it  is  quite  unlike  Browning 
to  write  a  magnificent  poem  with  a  cynical  conclu- 
sion. 

No,  I  believe  that  once  upon  a  time,  Roland,  Giles, 
Cuthbert,  and  other  knights  in  solemn  assembly  took 
an  oath  to  go  on  the  quest  of  the  Dark  Tower:  to 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  235 

find  it  or  perish  on  the  way.  All  but  these  three 
have  apparently  kept  their  word ;  they  have  never  re- 
turned, and  when  Roland  is  on  the  last  stages  of  his 
journey,  he  sees  why;  they  have  died  a  horrible 
death.  The  quest  is  indeed  an  unspeakably  perilous 
thing :  for  all  but  Giles  and  Cuthbert  are  dead,  and 
these  two  suffered  a  fate  worse  than  death — the  aw- 
ful fear  inspired  by  something  hideous  on  the  march 
changed  these  splendid  specimens  of  manhood  into 
craven  traitors.  Roland  remembers  with  cruel 
agony  the  ruddy  young  face  of  Cuthbert,  glowing 
under  its  yellow  hair:  was  there  ever  such  a  mag- 
nificent fellow?  But  the  path  to  the  Tower  had 
shaken  his  manhood,  and  disgraced  him  forever. 
How  well  Roland  remembers  the  morning  when 
Giles  took  the  oath  to  find  the  Tower!  That  was 
ten  years  ago.  The  frank,  manly  young  knight 
stepped  forth,  and  declared  proudly  that  he  dared 
do  all  that  might  become  a  man.  But  he  had  some 
awful  experience  in  the  course  of  the  quest  that 
changed  him  from  the  soul  of  honor  to  a  whim- 
pering coward.  His  own  companions  spat  upon  him 
and  cursed  him. 

Roland  alone  is  left.  And  he  has  experienced  so 
many  disappointments  that  now  all  hope  of  finding 
the  Tower  is  dead  in  his  breast.    Just  one  spark  of 


236  BROWNING 

manhood  remains.     He  can  not  succeed,  but  God 
grant  that  he  may  be  fit  to  fail. 

.     .     .         just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit? 

As  he  advances,  the  country  becomes  an  abomina- 
tion of  desolation;  then  appear  evidences  of  strug- 
gle, the  marks  of  monsters :  then  the  awful,  boiling 
river,  with  the  nerve-shattering  shriek  from  its 
depths  as  he  thrust  in  his  spear.  On  the  other  bank, 
fresh  evidences  of  fearful  combats,  followed  far- 
ther along  by  the  appearance  of  engines  of  torture. 
Those  of  his  companions  who  had  survived  the 
beasts  had  there  perished  in  this  frightful  manner. 
Nevertheless,  Roland  advances,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground.  Suddenly  the  wide  wing  of  some  dreadful 
bird  of  the  night  brushed  his  cap,  and  he  looked  up 
— to  his  overwhelming  amazement,  he  sees  the 
Tower!  He  sees  it  as  the  sailor  sees  the  rocks  on  a 
dark  night,  only  when  the  ship  is  lost.  He  sees  it  in 
a  sudden  glare  of  hell;  the  air  is  full  of  mocking 
laughter,  the  scorn  of  fiends  mingling  with  the  sound 
of  the  names  of  their  victims,  his  peers  and  com- 
rades, all  lost !  The  ugly  misshapen  mountains  look 
like  sinister  giants,  lying  chin  upon  hand,  lazily 
awaiting  his  destruction.    But  this  atom  of  human- 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  237 

ity,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  material  forces  of  this 
world  and  the  supernatural  powers  of  darkness, 
places  the  horn  to  his  lips,  and  sends  out  on  the  eve- 
ning air  a  shrill  blast  of  utter  defiance.  He  that 
endureth  to  the  end  shall  be  saved.  Not  his  posses- 
sions, not  his  happiness,  not  his  bodily  frame — they 
all  succumb :  but  he  shall  be  saved. 

Thus  we  may  take  this  wholly  romantic  poem  as 
one  more  noble  illustration  of  Browning's  favorite 
doctrine — Success  in  Failure. 

"CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME" 

See  Edgar's  song  in  Lear 

1855 

My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road?  I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.    Yet  acquiescingly 


238  BROWNING 

I  did  turn  as  he  pointed :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 

What  with  my  search  drawn  out  through  years,  my 

hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring, — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
Freelier  outside,  ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 
"And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can  amend;") 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves : 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "The  Band" — to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit  ? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.    All  the  day 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  239 

Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

For  mark !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 

O'er  the  safe  road,  'twas  gone ;  gray  plain  all  round  i 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on ;  naught  else  remained  to  do. 

So,  on  I  went.    I  think  I  never  saw 
Such  starved  ignoble  nature ;  nothing  throve : 
For  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove  I 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You'd  think :  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure  trove. 

No !  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 
In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.  "See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"It  nothing  skills :  I  cannot  help  my  case : 
'Tis  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this  place, 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped ;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.    What  made  those  holes  and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  balk 
All  hope  of  greenness?  'tis  a  brute  must  walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In  leprosy ;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 


240  BROWNING 

One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there : 
Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud ! 

Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 
With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped  neck  a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane ; 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe ; 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so ; 
He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterwards— the  soldier's  art : 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights. 

Not  it!    I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 

Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.    Alas,  one  night's  disgrace ! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honour — there  he  stands 

Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 

What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he  durst. 

Good — but  the  scene  shifts — faugh  !  what  hangman  hands 

Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?    His  own  bands 

Read  it.    Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst ! 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that ; 
Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again  ! 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  241 

Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat? 
I  asked :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 
Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their  train. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful!    All  along, 
Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng: 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit. 

Which,  while  I  forded, — good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard ! 

— It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.    Vain  presage ! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage, 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash?    Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 
What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to  choose  ? 
No  footprint  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 


242  BROWNING 

None  out  of  it.    Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 
Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

And  more  than  that — a  furlong  on — why,  there  1 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel — that  harrow  fit  to  reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?  with  all  the  air 
Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with :  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 
Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes!)  within  a  rood — 
Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils ; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end! 

Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  naught 
To  point  my  footstep  further !    At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 
That  brushed  my  cap — perchance  the  guide  I  sought. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains — with  such  name  to  grace 


DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUES  243 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me, — solve  it,  you  I 

How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.    Here  ended,  then, 
Progress  this  way.    When,  in  the  very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts — you're  inside  the  den ! 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 
This  was  the  place !  those  two  hills  on  the  right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight ; 

While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain  .  .  .  Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 
After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight! 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself? 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.    The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

Not  see?  because  of  night  perhaps? — why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft: 

The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 

Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay, — 
"Now  stab  and  end  the  creature — to  the  heft !" 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere!  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.    Names  in  my  ears, 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 


244  BROWNING 

How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost !  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hillsides,  met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture !  in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.    And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 
And  blew.  "Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came" 


VI 


POEMS  OF  PARADOX 


THE  word  paradox  comes  from  two  Greek 
words,  meaning  simply,  "beyond  belief."  As 
every  one  ought  to  know,  a  paradox  is  something 
that  read  literally  is  absurd,  but  if  taken  in  the  spirit 
in  which  it  is  uttered,  may  contain  profound  truth. 
Paradox  is  simply  over-emphasis :  and  is  therefore  a 
favorite  method  of  teaching.  By  the  employment 
of  paradox  the  teacher  wishes  to  stress  forcibly  some 
aspect  of  the  truth  which  otherwise  may  not  be  seen 
at  all.  Fine  print  needs  a  magnifying-glass ;  and  the 
deep  truth  hidden  in  a  paradox  can  not  perhaps  be- 
come clear  unless  enlarged  by.  powerful  emphasis. 
All  teachers  know  the  value  of  italics. 

Socrates  was  very  fond  of  paradox :  the  works  of 
Ibsen,  Nietzsche,  Shaw  and  Chesterton  are  full  of 
paradoxes :  Our  Lord's  utterances  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament are  simply  one  paradox  after  another.  No 
wonder  His  disciples  were  often  in  a  maze.     It  re- 

245 


246  BROWNING 

quires  centuries  for  the  truth  in  some  paradoxes  to 
become  manifest. 

"This  was  some  time  a  paradox,  but  now  the  time  gives  it 
proof." 

Browning  loved  a  paradox  with  all  his  heart.  The 
original  nature  of  his  mind,  his  fondness  for  taking 
the  other  side,  his  over-subtlety,  all  drove  him  to- 
ward the  paradox.  He  would  have  made  a  wonder- 
ful criminal  lawyer.^  He  loves  to  put  some  imagi- 
nary or  historical  character  on  the  stand,  and  permit 
him  to  speak  freely  in  his  own  defence ;  and  he  par- 
ticularly loves  to  do  this,  when  the  person  has  re- 
ceived universal  condemnation.  Browning  seems  to 
say,  "I  wonder  if  the  world  is  entirely  right  in  this 
judgment :  what  would  this  individual  say  if  given 
an  opportunity  for  apologetic  oratory?"  Browning 
is  the  greatest  master  of  special  pleading  in  all  liter- 
ature. Although  he  detested  Count  Guido,  he  makes 
him  present  his  case  in  the  best  possible  light,  so 
that  for  the  moment  he  arouses  our  intellectual 
sympathy. 

The  Glove  story  is  one  of  the  best-known  anec- 
dotes in  history;  besides  its  French  source,  it  has 
been  told  in  German  by  Schiller,  in  English  by  Leigh 
Hunt,  and  has  received  thousands  of  allusory  com- 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  247 

ments — but  always  from  one  point  of  view.  The 
hooting  and  laughter  that  followed  the  Lady  as  she 
left  the  court,  have  been  echoed  in  all  lands.  Brown- 
ing pondered  over  this  story,  and  took  the  woman's 
part.  This  may  be  accounted  for  by  two  causes.  He 
is  the  most  chivalrous  poet  that  ever  lived,  and 
would  naturally  defend  the  Lady.  What  De  Lorge 
ought  to  have  done  when  he  brought  the  glove  back 
was  to  remind  the  Lady  that  she  had  another,  and 
permit  him  the  honor  of  retrieving  that.  But 
Browning  saw  also  in  this  incident  a  true  paradox — 
the  Lady  was  right  after  all !  Right  in  throwing  the 
glove,  right  in  her  forecast  of  the  event. 

Like  a  good  lawyer,  he  first  proves  that  the 
Knight's  achievement  was  slight.  In  the  pit  the 
Lion  was  not  at  that  moment  dangerous,  because  he 
was  desperately  homesick.  He  was  lost  in  thoughts 
of  his  wild  home,  in  imagination  driving  the  flocks 
up  the  mountain,  and  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of 
the  glove.  Then  a  page  had  leaped  into  the  pit  sim- 
ply to  recover  his  hat ;  and  he  had  done  that  because 
he  could  not  afford  to  buy  a  new  one.  No  one  ap- 
plauded him.  Think  of  the  man  who  had  originally 
caught  the  lion !  He  went  out  alone  and  trapped  a 
lion,  simply  that  his  rude  boys  might  be  amused  at 
the  spectacle.    In  our  degenerate  days,  we  give  our 


248  BROWNING 

children  a  Teddy  Bear.  But  in  those  strenuous 
times,  the  father  said  to  his  boys,  "Come  out  into 
the  back  yard,  and  see  the  present  I've  got  for  you !" 
They  came  eagerly,  and  found  a  live  lion.  That  man 
and  his  children  were  a  hardy  family.  How  they 
would  have  laughed  at  De  Lorge's  so-called  heroism ! 

But  the  real  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  De  Lorge 
was  a  liar.  The  Lady  suspected  it  all  the  time,  and 
was  saddened  to  have  her  judgment  confirmed  by 
the  result.  De  Lorge  had  been  boasting  of  his  love, 
and  of  his  eagerness  to  prove  it.  He  had  begged  the 
Lady  to  test  him — he  would  gladly  die  for  her.  Now 
it  is  important  that  a  woman  should  know  before 
marriage  rather  than  after  whether  a  lover's  protes- 
tations are  genuine  or  not — in  short  whether  he  is 
sincere  and  reliable,  or  whether  he  is  a  liar.  The 
reason  why  men  lie  to  women  and  not  to  men  is  be- 
cause they  know  that  a  lie  to  a  woman  can  not  be 
avenged,  they  can  not  be  made  to  pay  any  penalty ; 
but  when  they  lie  to  other  men — in  business  affairs, 
for  example — the  penalty  is  severe. 

How  could  the  Lady  satisfy  her  mind?  How 
could  she  know  whether  De  Lorge  was  sincere  or 
not?  There  was  no  war,  there  was  no  tournament, 
there  was  no  quest.  Suddenly  one  method  presented 
itself.    She  tossed  her  glove  into  the  pit.    He  had  to 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  249 

go — he  could  never  have  held  up  his  head  otherwise. 
But  when  he  returned,  he  dashed  the  glove  in  the 
Lady's  face,  ostensibly  to  teach  her  that  a  brave 
man's  life  should  not  be  risked  by  a  woman's  vanity. 
This  was  even  a  better  gallery-play  than  the  recovery 
of  the  glove,  and  succeeded  splendidly.  But  the 
Lady  turned  sadly  away. 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak : 
Does  the  mark  yet  discolour  my  cheek? 
But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 
Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know? 

What  was  the  pain  in  her  hearf?  Her  wounded 
vanity,  her  anguish  at  the  Court's  ostracism?  Not 
in  the  least.  It  was  her  pain  at  finding  her  opinion 
of  De  Lorge  justified.  He  was  then,  just  as  she 
thought,  a  liar;  he  never  meant  to  be  taken  at  his 
word.  All  his  protestations  of  love  and  service  were 
mere  phrases.  His  anger  at  the  first  test  of  his 
boasting  proves  this.  The  pain  in  her  heart  is  the 
pain  we  all  feel  at  reading  of  some  cowardly  or  dis- 
loyal act;  one  more  man  unfaithful,  one  more  man 
selfish,  one  more  who  lowers  the  level  of  human 
nature. 

The  paradox  teaches  us  the  very  simple  lesson  that 
if  we  boast  of  our  prowess,  we  must  not  be  angry 
when  some  one  insists  that  we  prove  it. 


250  BROWNING 

THE  GLOVE 

1845 

(peter  ronsard  loquitur) 

"Heigho !"  yawned  one  day  King  Francis, 
"Distance  all  value  enhances  ! 
"When  a  man's  busy,  why,  leisure 
"Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure : 
"  'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he  ? 
"Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 
"Here  we've  got  peace ;  and  aghast  I'm 
"Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime. 
"Is  there  a  reason  in  metre? 
"Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter !" 
I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 
Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 
"Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets: 
"Men  are  the  merest  Ixions" — 
Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "Let's 
" — Heigho — go  look  at  our  lions  !" 
Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 
If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  courtyard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold ; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  Sir  De  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most. 

Oh,  what  a  face !    One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside ; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow, 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  251 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework, 

And  fled  :  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled  ; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  firework's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter ; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute !    Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature's  but  narrow, 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 

Ilium  Juda  Leonem  de  Tribu. 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they  rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead : 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant, 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder, 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered? 

Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead  1 


252  BROWNING 

And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead, 

By  the  hope  in  those  e3res  wide  and  steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 

Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 

Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress : 

So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

"How  he  stands !"  quoth  the  King :  "we  may  well 

swear, 
("No  novice,  we've  won  our  spurs  elsewhere 
"And  so  can  afford  the  confession,) 
"We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 
"In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold  ; 
"Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold, 
"Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 
"The  visitor's  brisket  or  surloin : 
"But  who's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy? 
"Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie !" 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested : 
The  dame  'twas,  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past ;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight's  a  tarrier  1 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove,— while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir, — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated, 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  253 

Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated, 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove. 

"Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her  ? 
"So  should  I !" — cried  the  King — "  'twas  mere  vanity, 
"Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity!" 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Not  so,  I ;  for  I  caught  an  expression 

In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 

Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment, — ■ 

As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 

She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 

So  long  as  the  process  was  needful, — 

As  if  she  had  tried  in  a  crucible, 

To  what  "speeches  like  gold"  were  reducible, 

And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 

Felt  the  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper ; 

To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 

Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and  dust  too. 

She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter ; 

Clement  Marot  stayed;  I  followed  after, 

And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant? 

If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recalment? 

"For  I" — so  I  spoke — "am  a  poet : 

"Human  nature, — behoves  that  I  know  it !" 

She  told  me,  "Too  long  had  I  heard 

"Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word : 

"For  my  love — what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare ! 

"With  my  scorn — what  De  Lorge  could  compare ! 

"And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 

"He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 


254  BROWNING 

"I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 
"Doubt  his  word — and  moreover,  perforce, 
"For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 
"Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 
"When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 
"All  the  dangers  at  once  to  my  thought, 
"Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 
"Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den, — 
"From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 
"Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands, 
"With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud, 
"By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed, 
"Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 
"That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  the  gift, 
"—To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 
"Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 
"Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped, 
"Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped. 
"So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 
"One  trial  what  'death  for  my  sake' 
"Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine, 
"Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define 
"Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 
"Who  took  it  to  mean  just  'to  die/ 
"The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak : 
"Does  the  mark  yet  discolour  my  cheek? 
"But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 
"Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know?" 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 

No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more  weigh 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian ; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean — 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  255 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervour 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

—He'd  have  scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst  turn 

If  you  whispered  "Friend,  what  you'd  get,  first  earn  1" 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 

Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 

To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 

The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy; 

And  in  short  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  wooed  and  won  .  .  .  how  do  you  call  her  ? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well. 

And  'twas  noticed  he  never  would  honour 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 

While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in, — 

But  of  course  this  adventure  came  pat  in. 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story, 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory, 

But  the  wife  smiled — "His  nerves  are  grown  firmer : 

"Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur." 

V  emeriti  occur  rite  morbo! 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo. 

Browning  wrote  two  poems  on  pedantry;  the 
former,  in  Garden  Fancies,  takes  the  conventional 
view.  How  can  a  man  with  any  blood  in  him  pore 
over  miserable  books,  when  life  is  so  sweet?    The 


256  BROWNING  h^ 

other,  A  Grammarian's  Funeral,  is  the  apotheosis  of 
the  scholar.  The  paradox  here  is  that  Browning  has 
made  a  hero  out  of  what  seems  at  first  blush  impos- 
sible material.  It  is  easy  to  make  a  hero  out  of  a 
noble  character ;  it  is  equally  easy  to  make  a  hero  out 
of  a  thorough  scoundrel,  a  train-robber,  or  a  mur- 
derer. Milton  made  a  splendid  hero  out  of  the 
Devil.  But  a  hero  out  of  a  nincompoop?  A  hero 
out  of  a  dull,  sexless  pedant? 

But  this  is  exactly  what  Browning  has  done,  nay, 
he  has  made  this  grammarian  exactly  the  same  kind 
of  hero  as  a  dashing  cavalry  officer  leading  a  forlorn 
hope. 

Observe  that  Browning  has  purposely  made  his 
task  as  difficult  as  possible.  Had  the  scholar  been  a 
great  discoverer  in  science,  a  great  master  in  philo- 
sophical thought,  a  great  interpreter  in  literature — 
then  we  might  all  take  off  our  hats :  but  this  hero 
was  a  grammarian.  He  spent  his  life  not  on  Greek 
drama  or  Greek  philosophy,  but  on  Greek  Grammar. 
He  is  dead :  his  pupils  carry  his  body  up  the  "moun- 
tain, as  the  native  disciples  of  Stevenson  carried 
their  beloved  Tusitala  to  the  summit  of  the  island 
peak.  [These  students  are  not  weeping;  they  sing 
and  shout  as  they  march,  for  they  are  carrying  their 
idol  on  their  shoulders.    His  life  and.his  death  were 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  257, 

magnificent,  an  inspiration  to  all  humanity.  Hurrah ! 
Hurrah!  j 

The  swinging  movement  of  the  young  men  is  in 
exact  accord  with  the  splendid  advance  of  the 
thought.  They  tell  us  the  history  of  their  Teacher 
from  his  youth  to  his  last  breath : 

This  is  our  master,  famous  calm  and  dead, 
Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

It  is  a  common  error  to  suppose  that  missionaries, 
nuns,  and  scholars  follow  their  chosen  callings  be- 
cause they  are  unfit  for  anything  else.  The  judg- 
ment of  the  wise  world  is  not  always'  correct.  It  as- 
sumes that  the^e  strange  folk  never  hear  the  call  of 
the  blood.  When  John  G.  Calhoun  was  a  student  at 
Yale,  his  comrades,  returning  at  midnight  from  a 
wild  time,  found  him  at  lijs  books.  "Why  don't  you 
come  out,  John,  and  be  aNman?  You'll  never  be 
young  again."  "I  regard  nly  work  as  more  impor- 
tant," said  John  quietly.    Milton's  bitter  cry 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair? 

shows  that  it  was  not  the  absence  of  temptation,  but 
a  tremendously  powerful  will,  that  kept  him  at  his 
desk.    When  a  spineless  milksop  becomes  a  mission- 


258  BROWNING 

ary,  when  a  gawk  sticks  to  his  books,  when  an  ugly 
woman  becomes  a  nun,  the  world  makes  no  objec- 
tion ;  but  when  a  socially  prominent  man  goes  in  for 
miss'ons  or  scholarship,  when  a  lovely  girl  takes  the 
veil,  the  wise  world  says,  "Ah,  what  a  pity !" 

Browning's  Grammarian  did  not  take  tip  scholar- 
ship as  a  last  resort.  He  could  have  done  anything 
he  liked. 

He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 
Lyric  Apollo ! 

He  might  have  been  an  athlete,  a  social  leader,  a 
man  of  pleasure.  He  chose  Greek  Grammar.  In 
the  pursuit  of  this  prize,  he  squandered  his  time  and 
youth  and  health  as  recklessly  as  men  squander  these 
treasures  on  wine  and  women.  When  a  young  man 
throws  away  his  youth  and  health  in  gambling, 
drink,  and  debauchery,  the  world  expresses  no  sur- 
prise; he  is  known  as  a  "splendid  fellow,"  and  is 
often  much  admired.  But  when  a  man  spends  all  his 
gifts  in  scholarship,  scientific  discovery,  or  altruistic 
aims,  he  is  regarded  as  an  eccentric,  lacking  both 
blood  and  judgment. 

I  say  that  Browning  has  given  his  Grammarian 
not  only  courage  and  heroism,  but  the  reckless,  dash- 
ing, magnificent  bravery  of  a  cavalry  leader.  In  the 
march  for  learning,  this  man  lost  his  youth  and 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  259 

health,  and  acquired  painful  diseases.  Finally  he 
comes  to  the  end.  When  an  officer  in  battle  falls, 
and  his  friends  bend  over  him  to  catch  his  last 
breath,  he  does  not  say,  "I  commend  my  soul  to 
God,"  or  "Give  my  love  to  my  wife," — he  says,  "Did 
we  win?"  and  we  applaud  this  passion  in  the  last 
agony.  So  our  Grammarian,  full  of  diseases,  para- 
lysed from  the  waist  down,  the  death  rattle  in  his 
throat — what  does  he  say  to  the  faithful  watchers  ? 
What  are  his  last  words  ?  He  dictates  Greek  Gram- 
mar. 

The  solitary  student  may  be  a  paragon  of  courage, 
headstrong,  reckless,  tenacious  as  a  bulldog,  with  a 
resolution  entirely  beyond  the  range  of  the  children 
of  this  world. 

SIBRANDUS  SCHAFNABURGENSIS 
1844 

Plague  take  all  your  pedants,  say  I ! 

He  who  wrote  what  I  hold  in  my  hand, 
Centuries  back  was  so  good  as  to  die, 

Leaving  this  rubbish  to  cumber  the  land ; 
This,  that  was  a  book  in  its  time, 

Printed  on  paper  and  bound  in  leather, 
Last  month  in  the  white  of  a  matin-prime, 

Just  when  the  birds  sang  all  together. 

Into  the  garden  I  brought  it  to  read, 
And  under  the  arbute  and  laurustine 


!60  BRGWNiNG 

Read  it,  so  help  me  gra.e  [n  my  need, 

From  title-page  to  clo,}ng  iine. 
Chapter  on  chapter  did  I  c->unt 

As  a  curious  traveller  coum*  Stonehenge; 
Added  up  the  mortal  amount; 

And  then  proceeded  to  my  revenge. 

Yonder's  a  plum-tree  with  a  crevice 

An  owl  would  build  in,  were  he  but  sage ; 
For  a  lap  of  moss,  like  a  fine  pont-levis 

In  a  castle  of  the  Middle  Age, 
Joins  to  a  lip  of  gum,  pure  amber ; 

When  he'd  be  private,  there  might  he  spend 
Hours  alone  in  his  lady's  chamber : 

Into  this  crevice  I  dropped  our  friend. 

Splash,  went  he,  as  under  he  ducked, 

— At  the  bottom,  I  knew,  rain-drippings  stagnate; 
Next,  a  handful  of  blossoms  I  plucked 

To  bury  him  with,  my  bookshelf's  magnate ; 
Then  I  went  in-doors,  brought  out  a  loaf, 

Half  a  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  Chablis  ; 
Lay  on  the  grass  and  forgot  the  oaf 

Over  a  jolly  chapter  of  Rabelais. 

Now,  this  morning,  betwixt  the  moss 

And  gum  that  locked  our  friend  in  limbo, 
A  spider  had  spun  his  web  across, 

And  sat  in  the  midst  with  arms  akimbo : 
So,  I  took  pity,  for  learning's  sake, 

And,  de  profundis,  accentibus  loetis, 
Cantate!  quoth  I,  as  I  got  a  rake; 

And  up  I  fished  his  delectable  treatise. 

Here  you  have  it,  dry  in  the  sun, 
With  all  the  binding  all  of  a  blister, 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  261 

And  great  blue  spots  where  the  ink  has  run, 
And  reddish  streaks  that  wink  and  glister 

O'er  the  page  so  beautifully  yellow: 

Oh,  well  have  the  droppings  played  their  tricks ! 

Did  he  guess  how  toadstools  grow,  this  fellow? 
Here's  one  stuck  in  his  chapter  six ! 

How  did  he  like  it  when  the  live  creatures 

Tickled  and  toused  and  browsed  him  all  over, 
And  worm,  slug,  eft,  with  serious  features, 

Came  in,  each  one,  for  his  right  of  trover? 
• — When  the  water-beetle  with  great  blind  deaf  face 

Made  of  her  eggs  the  stately  deposit, 
And  the  newt  borrowed  just  so  much  of  the  preface 

As  tiled  in  the  top  of  his  black  wife's  closet? 

All  that  life  and  fun  and  romping, 

All  that  frisking  and  twisting  and  coupling, 
While  slowly  our  poor  friend's  leaves  were  swamping 

And  clasps  were  cracking  and  covers  suppling ! 
As  if  you  had  carried  sour  John  Knox 

To  the  play-house  at  Paris,  Vienna  or  Munich, 
Fastened  him  into  a  front-row  box, 

And  danced  off  the  ballet  with  trousers  and  tunic. 

Come,  old  martyr!   What,  torment  enough  is  it? 

Back  to  my  room  shall  you  take  your  sweet  self. 
Good-bye,  mother-beetle;  husband-eft,  sufficit! 

See  the  snug  niche  I  have  made  on  my  shelf ! 
A's  book  shall  prop  you  up,  B's  shall  cover  you, 

Here's  C  to  be  grave  with,  or  D  to  be  gay, 
And  with  E  on  each  side,  and  F  right  over  you, 

Dry-rot  at  ease  till  the  Judgment-day ! 


262  BROWNING 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

SHORTLY   AFTER   THE  REVIVAL  OF   LEARNING   IN    EUROPE 
1855 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-f or  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row! 
That's  the  appropriate  country ;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome  it; 
No !  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the  heights : 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders  1 
This  is  our  master,  famous  calm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 
Safe  from  the  weather! 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  263 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo  1 
Long  he  lived  nameless :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon  1 

"My  dance  is  finished?" 
No,  that's  the  world's  way:  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled  ? 

"Show  me  their  shaping, 
"Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

"Give  !" — So,  he  gcwned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain : 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain  1" 

This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

"Patience  a  moment  1 
"Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

"Still  there's  the  comment. 
"Let  me  know  all !    Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

"Painful  or  easy! 
"Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

"Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 


264  BROWNING 

Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 
When  he  had  learned  it, 

When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give ! 
Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 

Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts- 
Fancy  the  fabric 

Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 
Ere  mortar  dab  brick! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached :  there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus!) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live- 
No  end  to  learning: 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes : 

"Live  now  or  never  !" 
He  said,  "What's  time  ?    Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes ! 

"Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then :  deeper  drooped  his  head : 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest !"— not  he ! 

(Caution  redoubled, 
Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not  a  whit  troubled 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  265 

Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain ! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure : 
"Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"    He  answered  "Yes: 

"Hence  with  life's  pale  lure!" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit: 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be! — 

Properly  based  Oun — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 


266  BROWNING 

Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place : 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews  1 
Here's  the  top-peak ;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know- 
Bury  this  man  there? 
Here — here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds 
form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go  I    Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects : 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 

In  the  amusing  poem,  Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the 
City,  Browning  compares  the  beauty  of  city  and 
country  life  from  an  unusual  point  of  view.  It  is 
generally  assumed  that  the  country  is  more  poetical 
than  the  city ;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  this, 
if  we  were  put  to  the  test.  Natural  scenery  is  now 
much  admired,  and  mountains  are  in  the  height  of 
fashion;  every  one  is  forced  to  express  raptures, 
whether  one  feels  them  or  not.  But  this  has  not  al- 
ways been  the  case.  When  Addison  travelled  to 
Italy,  he  regarded  the  Alps  as  disgusting ;  they  were 
a  disagreeable  and  dangerous  barrier,  that  must  be 
crossed  before  he  could  reach  the  object  of  his  jour- 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  267 

.hey.  He  wrote  home  from  Italy  that  he  was  de- 
lighted at  the  sight  of  a  plain — a  remark  that  would 
damn  a  modern  pilgrim.  The  first  man  in  English 
literature  to  bring  out  the  real  beauty  of  mountains 
was  Thomas  Gray. 

Very  few  people  have  a  sincere  and  genuine  love 
of  the  country — as  is  proved  by  the  way  they  flock 
to  the  cities.  We  love  the  country  for  a  change,  for 
a  rest,  for  its  novelty:  how  many  of  us  would  be 
willing  to  live  there  the  year  around?  We  know 
that  Wordsworth  loved  the  country,  for  he  chose  to 
live  among  the  lonely  lakes  when  he  could  have  lived 
in  London.  But  most  intelligent  persons  live  in 
towns,  and  take  to  the  country  for  change  and  recre- 
ation. 

The  speaker  in  Browning's  poem  is  an  absolutely 
honest  Philistine,  who  does  not  know  that  every 
word  he  says  spells  artistic  damnation.  He  is  dis- 
gusted with  the  situation  of  his  house : 

.    .    .    .    stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull. 

In  other  words  the  site  is  so  magnificent  that  to-day 
expensive  hotels  are  built  there,  and  people  come 
from  all  over  the  world  to  enjoy  the  view.  In  fact 
it  is  just  this  situation  which  Browning  admires  in 
the  poem  De  Gustibus. 


268  BROWNING 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

But  our  man  does  not  know  what  he  ought  to  say ; 
he  says  simply  what  he  really  thinks.  The  views  of 
a  sincere  Philistine  on  natural  scenery,  works  of  art, 
pieces  of  music,  are  interesting  because  they  are  sin- 
cere. The  conventional  admiration  may  or  may  not 
be  genuine. 

This  man  says  the  city  is  much  cooler  in  summer 
than  the  country :  that  spring  visits  the  city  earlier : 
that  what  we  call  the  monotonous  row  of  houses  in 
a  city  street  is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  irregu- 
larity of  the  country.  It  appeals  to  his  sense  of 
beauty. 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry. 

But  his  real  rapture  over  the  city  is  because  city 
life  is  interesting.  There  is  something  going  on 
every  moment  of  the  blessed  day.  It  is  a  perpet- 
ual theatre,  admission  free.  This  is  undoubtedly 
the  real  reason  why  the  poor  prefer  crowded,  squalid 
city  tenements  to  the  space,  fresh  air  and  hygienic 
advantages  of  the  country.  Many  well-meaning  folk 
wonder  why  men  with  their  families  remain  in  city 
slums,  when  they  could  easily  secure  work  on  farms, 
where  there  would  be  abundance  of  fresh  air,  whole- 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  269 

some  food,  and  cool  nights  for  sleep.  Our  Italian 
gives  the  correct  answer.  People  can  not  stand  dull- 
ness and  loneliness :  they  crave  excitement,  and  this 
is  supplied  day  and  night  by  the  city  street.  Indeed 
in  some  cases,  where  by  the  Fresh  Air  Fund,  chil- 
dren are  taken  for  a  vacation  to  the  country,  they  be- 
come homesick  for  the  slums. 

UP  AT  A  VILLA— DOWN   IN  THE  CITY 

(AS   DISTINGUISHED  BY   AN    ITALIAN   PERSON   OF   QUALITY) 

1855 

I 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 

The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square; 

Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there! 

II 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least ! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a 
beast. 

Ill 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull  1 
— I   scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair's  turned 
wool. 

IV 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the  houses  !    Why  ? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there's  something  to 
take  the  eye! 


270  BROWNING 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry ; 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who  hur- 
ries by; 

Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun 
gets  high; 

And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 


What  of  a  villa?    Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 
Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off 

the  heights : 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen  steam 

and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  grey  olive-trees. 

VI 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?    You've  summer  all  at  once ; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three  fingers 

well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and 

sell. 

VII 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?  There's  a  fountain  to  spout  and 
splash  1 

In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs;  in  the  shine  such  foam- 
bows  flash 

On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle 
and  pash 

Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch— fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 

Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in 
a  sort  of  sash. 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  271 

VIII 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you  linger, 

Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted  fore- 
finger. 

Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and 
mingle, 

Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 

Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 

And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous 
firs  on  the  hill. 

Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever 
and  chill. 

IX 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells 

begin : 
No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in : 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 
By-and-by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood, 

draws  teeth; 
Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play,  piping 

hot! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves 

were  shot. 
Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law 

of  the  Duke's  I 
Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So-and- 
so 
Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome  and  Cicero, 
"And  moreover,"   (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)   "the  skirts  of 

Saint  Paul  has  reached, 
"Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous 

than  ever  he  preached." 


272  BROWNING 

Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession !  our  Lady  borne 

smiling  and  smart 
With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck 

in  her  heart ! 
Bang -whang -whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it's  the  greatest  pleasure  in 

life. 

X 

But  bless  you,  it's  dear — it's  dear !  fowls,  wine,  at  double  the 

rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays 

passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.    And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the 

city! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers :  but  still — ah,  the  pity,  the 

pity! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls 

and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the  yellow 

candles ; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with 

handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  pre- 
vention of  scandals : 
Bang -whang -whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life! 

No  poem  of  Browning's  has  given  more  trouble  to 
his  whole-souled  admirers  than  The  Statue  and  the 
Bust:  and  yet,  if  this  is  taken  as  a  paradox,  its  mean- 
ing is  abundantly  clear. 

The  square  spoken  of  in  the  poem  is  the  Piazza 
Annunziata  in  Florence :  in  the  midst  of  the  square 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  273 

stands  the  equestrian  statue  of  the  Duke :  and  if  one 
follows  the  direction  of  the  bronze  eyes  of  the  man, 
it  will  appear  that  they  rest  steadfastly  on  the  right 
hand  window  in  the  upper  storey  of  the  palace.  This 
is  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East.  There  is  no 
bust  there ;  but  it  is  in  this  window  that  the  lady  sat 
and  regarded  the  daily  passage  of  the  Duke. 

The  reason  why  this  poem  has  troubled  the  minds 
of  many  good  people  is  because  it  seems  (on  a  very 
superficial  view)  to  sympathise  with  unlawful  love; 
even  in  certain  circumstances  to  recommend  the  pur- 
suit of  it  to  fruition.  Let  us  see  what  the  facts  are. 
Before  the  Duke  saw  the  bride,  he  was,  as  Browning 
says,  empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath.  This  is 
a  good  description  of  many  young  men.  They  are 
like  an  empty  sheath.  The  sheath  may  be  beautiful, 
it  may  be  exquisitely  and  appropriately  enchased; 
but  a  sheath  is  no  good  without  a  sword.  So,  many 
young  men  are  attractive  and  accomplished,  their 
minds  are  cultivated  by  books  and  travel,  but  they 
have  no  driving  purpose  in  life,  no  energy  directed 
to  one  aim,  no  end ;  and  therefore  all  their  attractive- 
ness is  without  positive  value.  They  are  empty  like 
a  handsome  sheath  minus  the  sword. 

The  moment  the  Duke  saw  the  lady  a  great  pur- 
pose filled  his  life :  he  became  temporarily  a  resolute, 


274  BROWNING 

ambitious  man,  with  capacity  for  usefulness.  No 
moral  scruple  kept  the  lovers  apart;  and  they  de- 
termined to  fly.  This  purpose  was  frustrated  by  pro- 
crastination, trivial  hindrances,  irresolution,  till  it 
was  forever  too  late.  Now  the  statue  and  the  bust 
gaze  at  each  other  in  eternal  ironical  mockery,  for 
these  lovers  in  life  might  as  well  have  been  made  of 
bronze  and  stone ;  they  never  really  lived. 

Contrary  to  his  usual  custom — it  is  only  very  sel- 
dom as  in  this  poem  and  in  Bishop  Blougram's 
Apology,  and  in  both  cases  because  he  knew  he 
would  otherwise  be  misunderstood — Browning 
added  a  personal  postscript.  Where  are  these  lovers 
now  ?  How  do  they  spend  their  time  in  the  spiritual 
world  ?  I  do  not  know  where  they  are,  says  Brown- 
ing, but  I  know  very  well  where  they  are  not :  they  are 
not  with  God.  No,  replies  the  reader,  because  they 
wanted  to  commit  adultery.  Ah,  says  Browning, 
they  are  not  exiled  from  God  because  they  wanted  to 
commit  adultery:  they  are  exiled  because  they  did 
not  actually  do  it.    This  is  the  paradox. 

Browning  takes  a  crime  to  test  character;  for  a 
crime  can  test  character  as  well  as  a  virtue.  We 
must  draw  a  clear  distinction  here  between  society 
and  the  individual.  It  is  a  good  thing  for  society 
that  people  are  restrained  from  crime  by  what  are 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  275 

really  bad  motives — fear,  presence  of  police,  irreso- 
lution, love  of  ease,  selfishness :  furthermore,  society 
and  the  law  do  not  consider  men's  motives,  but  only 
their  actual  deeds.  A  white-souled  girl  and  a  black- 
hearted villain  with  no  criminal  record  are  exactly 
equal  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  both  perfectly  innocent. 
But  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  individual,  or  as 
a  Christian  would  say,  in  the  sight  of  God,  it  is  the 
heart  that  makes  all  the  difference  between  virtue 
and  depravity.  In  the  case  of  our  lovers  delay  was 
best  for  society,  but  bad  for  them:  the  purposed 
crime  was  a  test  of  their  characters,  and  they  added 
the  sin  of  cowardice  to  the  sin  of  adultery,  which 
they  had  already  committed  in  their  hearts.  Sup- 
pose four  men  agree  to  hold  up  a  train.  When  the 
light  of  the  locomotive  appears,  three  lose  their  cour- 
age: the  fourth  stops  the  train,  and  single-handed 
takes  the  money  from  the  express-car  and  from  the 
passengers,  killing  the  conductor  and  the  express- 
messenger.  After  the  train  has  been  sent  on  its  way, 
the  three  timid  ones  divide  up  with  the  man  who  ac- 
tually committed  the  crimes.  Who  is  the  most  vir- 
tuous among  the  four?  Which  has  the  best  chance 
to  be  with  God ?  Manifestly  the  brave  one,  although 
he  is  a  robber  and  a  murderer.  From  the  point  of 
view  of  the  people  who  owned  the  money,  from  the 


276  BROWNING 

point  of  view  of  the  families  of  the  dead  men,  it 
would  have  been  better  if  all  four  of  the  would-be 
robbers  had  been  cowards:  but  for  that  criminal's 
individual  soul,  he  was  better  than  his  mates,  because 
the  crime  tested  his  character  and  found  him  sound : 
he  did  not  add  the  sin  of  cowardice  to  the  sins  of 
robbery  and  murder. 

Browning  changes  the  figure.  If  you  choose  to 
play  a  game — no  one  is  obliged  to  play,  but  if  you  do 
choose  to  play — then  play  with  all  your  energy, 
whether  the  stakes  are  money  or  worthless  counters. 
Now  our  lovers  chose  to  play.  The  stake  they 
played  for  was  not  the  true  coin  of  marriage,  but  the 
false  counter  of  adultery.  Still,  the  game  was  a  real 
test  of  their  characters,  and  it  proved  them  lacking 
in  every  true  quality  that  makes  men  and  women 
noble  and  useful. 

Even  now  Browning  knew  that  some  readers 
would  not  understand  him :  so  he  added  the  last  two 
lines,  which  ought  to  make  his  lesson  clear.  You 
virtuous  people  (I  see  by  your  expression  you  disap- 
prove and  are  ready  to  quarrel  with  me)  how  strive 
you?  De  te,  fabula!  My  whole  story  concerns  you. 
You  say  that  the  lovers  should  have  remained  virtu- 
ous :  you  say  that  virtue  should  be  the  great  aim  of 
life.    Very  well,  do  you  act  as  if  you  believed  what 


POEMS    OF   PARADOX  277 

you  say?  Is  virtue  the  greatest  thing  in  your  life? 
Do  you  strive  to  the  uttermost  toward  that  goal  ?  Do 
you  really  prefer  virtue  to  your  own  ease,  comfort 
and  happiness  ? 

I  find  Browning's  poem  both  clear  and  morally 
stimulating.  My  one  objection  would  be  that  he  puts 
rather  too  much  value  on  mere  energy.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  the  greatest  thing  in  life  is  striving,  strug- 
gle, and  force:  there  are  deep,  quiet  souls  who  ac- 
complish much  in  this  world  without  being  especially 
strenuous.  But  in  the  sphere  of  virtue  Browning 
was  essentially  a  fighting  man. 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST 

1855 

There's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air  ?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand." 


278  BROWNING 

The  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back — "Who  is  she?" 

— "A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure, 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes : 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime,  which  may  God  requite ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 
Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  279 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued — 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  a  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.    At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed  chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride — 
"Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied — 

"If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise ! 

"I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 


280  BROWNING 

"  Tis  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 
And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim. 
And  I  save  my  soul — but  not  to-morrow" — 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state : 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  hiir. 

"Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.    Just  so  1 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing  and  sleep : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "  'Twas  a  very  funeral, 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall  1 

"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers  ?" 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean ! 

"But,  alas !  my  lady  leaves  the  South ; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  281 

"Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring: 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here !" 

And  then  to  himself — "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king ! 

"Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool—* 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance: 

"For  I  ride — what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide !'' 

So  said,  so  done :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 


282  BROWNING 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth : 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter's  dearth 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth : 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simple  policy ;  better  wait : 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate ! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years ;  gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream ; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above: 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 


POEMS    OF   PARADOX  283 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass — 
"Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square  I 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  'What  matters  it  at  the  end  ? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

"Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine, 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face — 


284  BRUAUNajg 

Eying  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  streLch, 

Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by — ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence,  "Youth — my  dream  escapes  ! 
Will  its  record  stay?"    And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes — 
"Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft : 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in  bronze- 
Admire  and  say,  'When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once  1' 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So !   While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  285 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — i 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  through  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "But  delay  was  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime." — Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view  I 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf  ? 
Where  a  button  goes,  'twere  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play! — is  my  principle. 

Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 

For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is — the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you?    De  te,  fabula! 


286  BROWNING 

The  two  volumes  of  Dramatic  Idyls  are  full  of 
paradoxes,  for  Browning  became  fonder  and  fonder 
of  the  paradox  as  he  descended  into  the  vale  of 
years.     The  Russian  poem  Ivan  Ivanovitch  justly 
condemns  mothers  who  prefer  their  own  safety  to 
that  of  their  children.    When  a  stranger  gives  up  his 
life  for  another,  as  happens  frequently  in  crises  of 
fire  and  shipwreck,  we  applaud :  but  when  a  mother 
sacrifices  her  life  for  that  of  her  child,  she  does  the 
natural  and  expected  thing.     The  woman  in  this 
poem  was  a  monster  of  wickedness  and  did  not  de- 
serve to  live.     She  started  with  three  children  and 
arrived  with  none.     Now  there  are  some  things  in 
life  for  which  no  apology  and  no  explanation  suffice. 
What  do  we  care  about  her  story?     Who  cares  to 
hear  her  defence?     What  difference  does  it  make 
whether  she  actively  threw  out  the  children  or  al- 
lowed the  wolves  to  take  them?     She  arrives  safe 
and  sound  without  them  and  there  is  no  mistaking 
the  fact  that  she  rejoices  in  her  own  salvation.    She 
does  not  rejoice  long,  however,  for  Ivan,  who  is 
Browning's  ideal  of  resolution,  neatly  removes  her 
head.     Practically  and  literally  Ivan  is  a  murderer : 
but  paradoxically  he  is  God's  servant,  for  the  woman 
is  not  fit  to  live,  and  he  eliminates  her. 

From  the  practical  point  of  view  there  is  a  diffi- 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  287 

culty  ahead.  The  husband  is  due;  when  he  hears 
that  the  children  are  lost,  he  will  suffer  horribly,  and 
w7ill  enquire  anxiously  as  to  the  fate  of  his  wife. 
When  he  learns  that  she  arrived  in  good  condition 
and  that  then  Ivan  knocked  her  head  off,  he  may  not 
fully  appreciate  the  ethical  beauty  of  Ivan's  deed. 
But  this  detail  does  not  affect  the  moral  significance 
of  the  story.  Yet  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  a  man 
with  such  strong  convictions  as  Ivan  ought  not  to 
carry  an  axe. 

Ivan,  however,  is  still  needed  in  Russia.  Two  or 
three  years  ago,  immediately  after  a  wedding  cere- 
mony, the  bride  and  groom,  with  the  whole  wedding 
party,  set  out  in  sledges  for  the  next  town.  The 
wolves  attacked  them  and  ate  every  member  of  the 
party  except  the  four  in  the  first  sledge — husband, 
wife,  and  two  men.  As  the  wolves  drew  near,  these 
two  heroes  advised  the  husband  to  throw  out  the 
bride,  for  if  he  did  so,  the  three  left  might  be  saved, 
as  their  haven  was  almost  in  sight.  Naturally  the 
bridegroom  declined.  Then  the  two  men  threw  out 
both  bride  and  groom,  and  just  managed  to  reach 
the  town  in  safety,  the  sole  survivors  of  the  whole 
party.  I  wish  that  Ivan  had  been  there  to  give  them 
the  proper  welcome. 

The  poem  Clive  is  a  psychological  analysis  of 


288  BROWNING 

courage  and  fear,  two  of  the  most  interesting  of 
human  sensations.  Give  seems  to  have  been  an  in- 
strument in  the  hands  of  Destiny.  When  an  obscure 
young  man,  he  twice  tried  to  commit  suicide,  and 
both  times  the  pistol  missed  fire.  A  born  gambler, 
he  judged  that  he  was  reserved  for  something  great. 
He  was:  he  conquered  India.  Then,  after  his  life- 
work  was  fully  accomplished,  his  third  attempt  at 
suicide  was  successful. 

After  describing  the  dramatic  incident  at  card- 
play,  which  he  gave  to  the  old  buck  as  the  only  time 
in  his  life  when  he  felt  afraid,  his  companion  re- 
marked that  it  was  enough  to  scare  anybody  to  face 
a  loaded  pistol.  But  here  comes  the  paradox.  Clive 
was  intensely  angry  because  his  friend  failed  to  see 
the  point.  "Why,  I  wasn't  afraid  he  would  shoot,  I 
was  afraid  he  wouldn't."  Suppose  the  general  had 
said  contemptuously  that  young  Clive  was  not  worth 
the  powder  and  ball  it  would  take  to  kill  him — sup- 
pose he  had  sent  him  away  wholly  safe  and  wholly 
disgraced.  Then  Clive  would  have  instantly  killed 
himself.  Either  the  general  was  not  clever  enough 
to  play  this  trump,  or  the  clear  unwinking  eyes  of  his 
victim  convicted  him  of  sin. 

Clive  was  one  of  those  exceedingly  rare  individ- 
uals who  have  never  known  the  sensation  of  physical 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  289 

fear.  But  I  do  not  think  he  was  really  so  brave  as 
those  men,  who,  cursed  with  an  imagination  that  fills 
their  minds  with  terror,  nevertheless  advance  toward 
danger.  For  your  real  hero  is  one  who  does  not  al- 
low the  desires  of  his  body  to  control  his  mind.  The 
body,  always  eager  for  safety,  comfort,  and  pleasure, 
cries  out  against  peril :  but  the  mind,  up  in  the  con- 
ning-tower  of  the  brain,  drives  the  protesting  and 
shivering  body  forward.  Napoleon,  who  was  a  good 
judge  of  courage,  called  Ney  the  bravest  of  the 
brave :  and  I  admired  Ney  more  intensely  when  I 
learned  that  in  battle  he  was  in  his  heart  always 
afraid. 

The  courage  of  soldiers  in  the  mass  seems  sub- 
lime, but  it  is  the  commonest  thing  on  earth :  all  na- 
tions show  it:  it  is  probably  an  inexplicable  com- 
pound of  discipline,  pride,  shame,  and  rage :  but  in- 
dividuals differ  from  one  another  as  sharply  in  cour- 
age as  they  do  in  mental  ability.  In  sheer  physical 
courage  Clive  has  never  been  surpassed,  and  Brown- 
ing, who  loved  the  manly  virtues,  saw  in  this  cor- 
rupt and  cruel  man  a  great  hero. 

The  poem  Muleykeh,  which  is  one  of  the  oldest 
of  Oriental  stories,  is  really  an  analysis  of  love.  The 
mare  was  dearer  to  her  owner  than  life  itself :  yet  he 
intentionally  surrendered  her  to  his  rival  rather  than 


290  BROWNING 

have  her  disgraced.  His  friends  called  him  an  idiot 
and  a  fool :  but  he  replied,  "You  never  have  loved 
my  Pearl."  And  indeed,  from  his  point  of  view, 
they  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  love.  What  is 
love?  Simply  the  desire  for  possession,  or  the  de- 
sire that  the  beloved  object  should  be  imcomparably 
pure  and  unsullied  by  defeat  and  disgrace?  The 
man  who  owned  Muleykeh  really  loved  her,  since 
her  honor  was  more  precious  to  him  than  his  own 
happiness. 

The  short  poem  Which?  published  on  the  last  day 
of  Browning's  life,  is  a  splendid  paradox.  In  the 
Middle  Ages,  when  house-parties  assembled,  an  im- 
mense amount  of  time  was  taken  up  by  the  telling  of 
stories  and  by  the  subsequent  discussions  thereupon. 
The  stock  subject  was  Love,  and  the  ideal  lover  was 
a  favorite  point  of  debate.  In  this  instance,  the 
three  court  ladies  argue,  and  to  complete  the  para- 
dox, a  Priest  is  chosen  for  referee.  Perhaps  he  was 
thought  to  be  out  of  it  altogether,  and  thus  ready  to 
judge  with  an  unprejudiced  mind. 

The  Duchess  declares  that  her  lover  must  be  a 
man  she  can  respect :  a  man  of  religion  and  patriot- 
ism. He  must  love  his  God,  and  his  country;  then 
comes  his  wife,  who  holds  the  third  place  in  his  af- 
fections. 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  291 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

The  Marquise  insists  that  her  lover  must  be  a  man 
who  has  done  something.  He  must  not  only  be  a 
man  inspired  by  religious  and  patriotic  motives,  but 
must  have  actually  suffered  in  her  service.  He  has 
received  wounds  in  combat,  he  is  pointed  out  every- 
where as  the  man  who  has  accomplished  great  deeds. 
I  can  not  love  him  unless  I  can  be  proud  of  his 
record. 

The  Comtesse  says  that  her  ideal  lover  must  love 
her  first :  he  must  love  her  more  than  he  loves  God, 
more  than  he  loves  his  country,  more  than  he  loves 
his  life — yes,  more  than  he  loves  his  own  honor. 
He  must  be  willing,  if  necessary,  not  only  to  sacrifice 
his  health  and  life  in  her  behalf,  indeed,  any  true 
knight  would  do  that :  he  must  be  willing  to  sacrifice 
his  good  name,  be  false  to  his  religion  and  a  traitor 
to  his  country.  What  do  I  care  whether  he  be  a 
coward,  a  craven,  a  scoundrel,  a  hissing  and  a  by- 
word, so  long  as  he  loves  me  most  of  all  ? 

This  is  a  difficult  position  for  the  Abbe,  the  man 
of  God :  but  he  does  not  flinch.  His  decision  is  that 
the  third  lover  is  the  one  of  whom  Almighty  God 
would  approve. 

One  thing  is  certain :  the  third  man  really  loved 


292  BROWNING 

his  Lady.  We  do  not  know  whether  the  other  two 
loved  or  not.  When  a  man  talks  a  great  deal  about 
his  honor,  his  self-respect,  it  is  just  possible  that  he 
loves  himself  more  than  he  loves  any  one  else.  But 
the  man  who  would  go  through  hell  to  win  a  woman 
really  loves  that  woman.  Browning  abhors  selfish- 
ness. He  detests  a  man  who  is  kept  from  a  certain 
course  of  action  by  thoughts  of  its  possible  results  to 
his  reputation.  Ibsen  has  given  us  the  standard  ex- 
ample of  what  the  first  and  second  lover  in  this  poem 
might  sink  to  in  a  real  moral  crisis.  In  A  Doll's 
House,  the  husband  curses  his  wife  because  she  has 
committed  forgery,  and  his  good  name  will  suffer. 
She  replied  that  she  committed  the  crime  to  save  his 
life — her  motive  was  Love :  and  she  had  hoped  that 
when  the  truth  came  out  the  miracle  would  happen : 
her  husband  would  step  forward  and  take  the  blame 
all  on  himself.  "What  fools  you  women  are,"  said 
he,  angrily:  "you  know  nothing  of  business.  I 
would  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you  :  I  would 
give  up  my  life  for  you :  but  you  can't  expect  a  man 
to  sacrifice  his  honor  for  a  woman."  Her  retort  is 
one  of  the  greatest  in  literature.  "Millions  of 
women  have  done  it." 


POEMS    OF    PARADOX  293 

WHICH? 
1889 

So,  the  three  Court-ladies  began 
Their  trial  of  who  judged  best 
In  esteeming  the  love  of  a  man : 
Who  preferred  with  most  reason  was  thereby  confessed 
Boy-Cupid's  exemplary  catcher  and  eager ; 
An  Abbe  crossed  legs  to  decide  on  the  wager. 

First  the  Duchesse :  "Mine  for  me — 

Who  were  it  but  God's  for  Him, 
And  the  King's  for — who  but  he? 
Both  faithful  and  loyal,  one  grace  more  shall  brim 
His  cup  with  perfection :  a  lady's  true  lover, 
He  holds — save  his  God  and  his  king — none  above  her/' 

"I  require" — outspoke  the  Marquise — 

"Pure  thoughts,  ay,  but  also  fine  deeds : 
Play  the  paladin  must  he,  to  please 
My  whim,  and — to  prove  my  knight's  service  exceeds 
Your  saint's  and  your  loyalist's  praying  and  kneeling — 
Show  wounds,  each  wide  mouth  to  my  mercy  appealing." 

Then  the  Comtesse :  "My  choice  be  a  wretch, 

Mere  losel  in  body  and  soul, 
Thrice  accurst !   What  care  I,  so  he  stretch 
Arms  to  me  his  sole  saviour,  love's  ultimate  goal, 
Out  of  earth  and  men's  noise — names  of  'infidel/  'traitor/ 
Cast  up  at  him?    Crown  me,  crown's  adjudicator!" 

And  the  Abbe  uncrossed  his  legs, 

Took  snuff,  a  reflective  pinch, 
Broke  silence :   "The  question  begs 
Much  pondering  ere  I  pronounce.    Shall  I  flinch  ? 
The  love  which  to  one  and  one  only  has  reference 
v  Seems  terribly  like  what  perhaps  gains  God's  preference." 


VII 

browning's  optimism 

AMONG  all  modern  thinkers  and  writers, 
,/j^  Browning  is  the  foremost  optimist.  He  has 
left  not  the  slightest  doubt  on  this  point ;  his  belief  is 
stated  over  and  over  again,  running  like  a  vein  of 
gold  through  all  his  poems  from  Pauline  to  Aso- 
lando.  The  shattered  man  in  Pauline  cries  at  the 
very  last, 

I  believe  in  God  and  Truth  and  Love. 

This  staunch  affirmation,  "I  believe !"  is  the  common 
chord  in  Browning's  music.  His  optimism  is  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  attitude  of  his  contempo-' 
raries,  for  the  general  tone  of  nineteenth  century 
literature  is  pessimistic.  Amidst  the  wails  and 
lamentations  of  the  poets,  the  clear,  triumphant  voice 
of  Browning  is  refreshing  even  to  those  who  are  not 
convinced. 

Browning  suffered  for  his  optimism.  It  is  gener- 
ally thought  that  the  optimist  must  be  shallow  and 
superficial ;  whilst  pessimism  is  associated  with  pro- 

294 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  295 

found  and  sincere  thinking.  Browning  felt  this  crit- 
icism, and  replied  to  it  with  a  scriptural  insult  in  his 
poem  A t  the  Mermaid.  I  can  not  possibly  be  a  great 
poet,  he  said  sneeringly,  because  I  have  never  said  I 
longed  for  death;  I  have  enjoyed  life  and  loved  it, 
and  have  never  assumed  a  peevish  attitude.  In  an- 
other poem  he  declared  that  pessimists  were  liars, 
because  they  really  loved  life  while  pretending  it  was 
all  suffering. 

It  is  only  fair  to  Browning  to  remember  that  his 
optimism  has  a  philosophical  basis,  and  is  the  logical 
result  of  a  firmly-held  view  of  the  universe.  Many 
unthinking  persons  declare  that  Browning,  with  his 
jaunty  good  spirits,  gets  on  their  nerves;  he  dodges 
or  leaps  over  the  real  obstacles  in  life,  and  thinks  he 
has  solved  difficulties  when  he  has  only  forgotten 
them.  They  miss  in  Browning  the  note  of  sorrow, 
of  internal  struggle,  of  despair;  and  insist  that  he 
has  never  accurately  portrayed  the  real  bitterness  of 
the  heart's  sufferings.  These  critics  have  never  read 
attentively  Browning's  first  poem. 

The  poem  Pauline  shows  that  Browning  had  his 
Sturm  una1  Drang,  in  common  with  all  thoughtful 
young  men.  Keats'  immortal  preface  to  Endymion 
would  be  equally  applicable  to  this  youthful  work. 
"The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  ma- 


296  BROWNING 

ture  imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy;  but  there  is  a 
space  of  life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  fer- 
ment, the  character  undecided,  the  way  of  life  un- 
certain, the  ambition  thick-sighted :  thence  proceeds 
mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  wrhich 
those  men  I  speak  of  must  necessarily  taste  in  going 
over  the  following  pages."  The  astonishing  thing  is, 
that  Browning  emerged  from  the  slough  of  despond 
at  just  the  time  when  most  young  men  are  entering 
it.  He  not  only  climbed  out,  but  set  his  face  reso- 
lutely toward  the  Celestial  City. 

The  poem  Pauline  shows  that  young  Browning 
passed  through  skepticism,  atheism,  pessimism,  cyn- 
icism, and  that  particularly  dark  state  when  the  mind 
reacts  on  itself;  when  enthusiasms,  high  hopes,  and 
true  faith  seem  childish ;  when  wit  and  mockery  take 
the  place  of  zeal,  this  diabolical  substitution  seeming 
for  the  moment  to  be  an  intellectual  advance.  But 
although  he  suffered  from  all  these  diseases  of  the 
soul,  he  quickly  became  convalescent  and  Paracelsus 
proves  that  his  cure  was  complete. 

Browning's  optimism  is  not  based  on  any  discount 
of  the  sufferings  of  life,  nor  any  attempt  to  overlook 
such  gross  realities  as  sin  and  pain.  No  pessimist 
has  realised  these  facts  more  keenly  than  he.  The 
Pope,  who  is  the  poet's  mouthpiece,  calls  the  world 


BROWNTNG-s    OPTIMISM  297 

a  dread  machinery  of  sin  an^^^  m  \?A  At  world  is 
full  of  sin  and  sorrow,  but  it  is  machinery — and  ma- 
chinery is  meant  to  make  something ;  in  this  instance 
the  product  is  human  character,  which  can  not  be 
made  without  obstacles,  struggles,  and  torment.  In 
Reverie,  Browning  goes  even  farther  than  this  in  his 
description  of  terrestrial  existence. 

Head  praises,  but  heart  refrains 
From  loving's  acknowledgment. 

Whole  losses  outweigh  half-gains : 
Earth's  good  is  with  evil  blent : 

Good  struggles  but  evil  reigns. 

Such  an  appraisal  of  life  can  hardly  be  called  a  blind 
and  jaunty  optimism. 

Browning  declares  repeatedly  that  the  world 
shows  clearly  two  attributes  of  God :  immense  force 
and  immense  intelligence.  We  can  not  worship  God, 
however,  merely  because  He  is  strong  and  wise ;  He 
must  be  better  than  we  are  to  win  our  respect  and 
homage.  The  third  necessary  attribute,  Love,  is  not 
at  all  clear  in  the  spectacle  furnished  by  science  and 
history.  Where  then  shall  we  seek  it?  His  answer 
is,  in  the  revelation  of  God's  love  through  Jesus 
Christ. 

What  lacks  then  of  perfection  fit  for  God 
But  just  the  instance  which  this  tale  supplies 
Of  love  without  a  limit? 


298  BROWTNING 

Browning' s^ion  of  a  rrLherefore  is  purely  Christian. 
The  love  of  God  revealed  in  the  Incarnation  and 
in  our  own  ethical  natures — our  imperfect  souls  con- 
taining here  and  now  the  possibilities  of  infinite  de- 
velopment— makes  Browning  believe  that  this  is 
God's  world  and  we  are  God's  children.  He  con- 
ceives of  our  life  as  an  eternal  one,  our  existence 
here  being  merely  probation.  No  one  has  ever  be- 
lieved more  rationally  and  more  steadfastly  in  the 
future  life  than  our  poet;  and  his  optimism  is  based 
solidly  on  this  faith.  The  man  who  believes  in  the 
future  life,  he  seems  to  say,  may  enjoy  whole-heart- 
edly and  enthusiastically  the  positive  pleasures  of 
this  world,  and  may  endure  with  a  firm  mind  its 
evils  and  its  terrible  sufferings.  Take  Christianity 
out  of  Browning,  and  his  whole  philosophy,  with  its 
cheerful  outlook,  falls  to  the  ground.  Of  all  true 
English  poets,  he  is  the  most  definitely  Christian,  the 
most  sure  of  his  ground.  He  wrote  out  his  own 
evangelical  creed  in  Christmas-Eve  and  Easter  Day; 
but  even  if  we  did  not  have  these  definite  assurances, 
poems  like  A  Death  in  the  Desert  and  Gold  Hair 
would  be  sufficient. 

Sequels  are  usually  failures :  the  sequel  to  Saul  is 
a  notable  exception  to  the  rule.  The  first  part  of  the 
poem,  including  the  first  nine  stanzas,  was  published 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  299 

among  the  Dramatic  Romances  in  1845 :  in  1855, 
among  the  Men  and  Women,  appeared  the  whole 
work,  containing  ten  additional  stanzas.  This  sequel 
is  fully  up  to  the  standard  of  the  original  in  artistic 
beauty,  and  contains  a  quite  new  climax,  of  even 
greater  intensity.  The  ninth  stanza  closes  with  the 
cry  "King  Saul !" — he  represents  the  last  word  of 
physical  manhood,  the  finest  specimen  on  earth  of 
the  athlete.  The  eighteenth  stanza  closes  with  the 
cry  "See  the  Christ  stand !" — He  represents  the  cli- 
max of  all  human  history,  the  appearance  on  earth 
of  God  in  man.  The  first  man  is  of  the  earth, 
earthy:  the  second  man  is  the  Lord  from  heaven. 
And  as  we  have  borne  the  image  of  the  earthy,  we 
shall  also  bear  the  image  of  the  heavenly. 

No  modern  Pagan  has  ever  sung  the  joy  of  life 
with  more  gusto  than  Browning  trolls  it  out  in  the 
ninth  stanza.  The  glorious  play  of  the  muscles,  the 
rapture  of  the  chase,  the  delight  of  the  plunge  into 
cold  water,  the  delicious  taste  of  food  and  wine,  the 
unique  sweetness  of  deep  sleep.  No  shame  attaches 
to  earthly  delights :  let  us  rejoice  in  our  health  and 
strength,  in  exercise,  recreation,  eating  and  sleeping. 
Saul  was  a  cowboy  before  he  was  a  King ;  and  young 
David  in  his  music  takes  the  great  monarch  back  to 
the  happy  carefree  days  on  the  pasture,  before  the 


300  BROWNING 

responsibilities  of  the  crown  had  given  him  melan- 
cholia. The  effect  of  music  on  patients  suffering 
from  nervous  depression  is  as  well  known  now  as  it 
was  in  Saul's  day;  Shakespeare  knew  something 
about  it.  His  physicians  are  sometimes  admirable; 
the  great  nervous  specialist  called  in  on  Lady  Mac- 
beth's  case  is  a  model  of  wisdom  and  discretion:  the 
specialist  that  Queen  Cordelia  summoned  to  pre- 
scribe for  her  father,  after  giving  him  trional,  or 
something  of  that  nature,  was  careful  to  have  his 
return  to  consciousness  accompanied  by  suitable 
music.  Such  terrible  fits  of  melancholy  as  afflicted 
Saul  were  called  in  the  Old  Testament  the  visitations 
of  an  evil  spirit;  and  there  is  no  better  diagnosis  to- 
day. The  Russian  novelist  Turgenev  suffered  ex- 
actly in  the  manner  in  which  Browning  describes 
Saul's  sickness  of  heart :  for  several  days  he  would 
remain  in  an  absolute  lethargy,  like  the  king-serpent 
in  his  winter  sleep.  And,  as  in  the  case  of  Saul, 
music  helped  him  more  than  medicine. 

When  David  had  carried  the  music  to  its  fullest 
extent,  the  spirit  of  prophecy  came  upon  him,  as  in 
the  Messianic  Psalms,  and  in  the  eighteenth  stanza, 
he  joyfully  infers  from  the  combination  of  man's 
love  and  man's  weakness,  that  God's  love  is  equal  to 
God's  power.    Man's  will  is  powerless  to  change  the 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  301 

world  of  atoms:  from  God's  will  stream  the  stars. 
Yet  if  man's  will  were  equal  in  power  to  his  benevo- 
lence, how  quickly  would  I,  David,  restore  Saul  to 
happiness !  The  fact  that  I  love  my  King  with  such 
intensity,  whilst  I  am  powerless  to  change  his  condi- 
tion, makes  me  believe  in  the  coming  of  Him  who 
shall  have  my  wish  to  help  humanity  with  the  accom- 
panying power.  Man  is  contemptible  in  his  strength, 
but  divine  in  his  ideals.  'Tis  not  what  man  Does 
which  exalts  him,  but  what  man  Would  do ! 

The  last  stanza  of  the  poem  has  been  thought  by 
some  critics  to  be  a  mistake,  worse  than  superfluous. 
For  my  part,  I  am  very  glad  that  Browning  added  it. 
Up  to  this  point,  we  have  had  exhibited  the  effect  of 
the  music  on  Saul :  now  we  see  the  effect  on  the  man 
who  produced  it,  David.  While  it  is  of  course  im- 
possible even  to  imagine  how  a  genius  must  feel 
immediately  after  releasing  some  immortal  work 
that  has  swollen  his  heart,  we  can  not  help  making 
conjectures.  If  we  are  so  affected  by  hearing  the 
Ninth  Symphony,  what  must  have  been  the  sensa- 
tions of  Beethoven  at  its  birth?  When  Handel 
wrote  the  Hallelujah  Chorus,  he  declared  that  he 
saw  the  heavens  opened,  and  the  Son  of  God  sitting 
in  glory,  and  I  think  he  spoke  the  truth.  After 
Thackeray  had  written  a  certain  passage  in  Vanity 


302  BROWNING 

Fair,  he  rushed  wildly  about  the  room,   shouting 
"That's  Genius!" 

Now  no  man  in  the  history  of  literature  has  been 
more  reticent  than  Browning  in  describing  his  emo- 
tions after  virtue  had  passed  out  of  him.  He  never 
talked  about  his  poetry  if  he  could  help  it;  and  the 
hundreds  of  people  who  met  him  casually  met  a 
fluent  and  pleasant  conversationalist,  who  gave  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  ever  having  been  on  the  heights. 
We  know,  for  example,  that  on  the  third  day  of 
January,  1852,  Browning  wrote  in  his  Paris  lodg- 
ings to  the  accompaniment  of  street  omnibuses  the 
wonderful  poem  CJiilde  Roland:  what  a  marvellous* 
day  that  must  have  been  in  his  spiritual  life!  In 
what  a  frenzy  of  poetic  passion  must  have  passed 
the  hours  when  he  saw  those  astounding  visions,  and 
heard  the  blast  of  the  horn  in  the  horrible  sunset! 
He  must  have  been  inspired  by  the  very  demon  of 
poetry.  And  yet,  so  far  as  we  know,  he  never  told 
any  one  about  that  day,  nor  left  any  written  record 
either  of  that  or  any  other  of  the  great  moments  in 
his  life.  In  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  he  tells  us  of  the 
passion,  mystery  and  wonder  that  filled  his  soul  on 
the  night  of  the  day  when  he  had  found  the  old  yel- 
low volume :  but  he  has  said  nothing  of  his  sensa- 
tions when  he  wrote  the  speech  of  Pompilia. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  303 

This  is  why  I  am  glad  he  added  the  last  stanza  to 
Saul.  It  purports  to  be  a  picture  of  David's  drunken 
rapture,  when,  after  the  inspiration  had  flowed 
through  his  soul,  he  staggered  home  through  the 
night.  About  him  were  angels,  powers,  unuttered, 
unseen,  alive,  aware.  The  whole  earth  was  awakened, 
hell  loosed  with  her  crews;  the  stars  of  night 
beat  with  emotion.  David  is  Browning  himself; 
and  the  poet  is  trying  to  tell  us,  in  the  only  way  pos- 
sible to  a  man  like  Browning,  how  the  floods  of  his 
own  genius  affected  him.  He  gives  a  somewhat 
similar  picture  in  Abt  Vogler.  It  is  not  in  the  least 
surprising  that  he  could  not  write  or  talk  to  his 
friends  about  such  marvellous  experiences.  Can  a 
man  who  has  looked  on  the  face  of  God,  and  dwelt 
in  the  heavenly  places,  talk  about  it  to  others  ? 

Furthermore  this  nineteenth  stanza  of  Saul  con- 
tains a  picture  of  the  dawn  that  has  never  been  sur- 
passed in  poetry.  Only  those  who  have  spent  nights 
in  the  great  woods  can  really  understand  it. 

SAUL 

1845-1855 

I 

Said  Abner,   "At  last  thou  art  come!     Ere  I  tell,  ere  thou 

speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well !"  Then  I  wished  it,  and  did  kiss 
his  cheek. 


304  BROWNING 

And  he:    "Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for  thy  countenance 

sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we ;  nor  until  from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth  yet, 
Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water  be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  nor  of 

praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back  upon 

life. 

II 

"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved !     God's  child  with  his 

dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild 

heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert !" 

Ill 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 
Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The  tent  was  un- 

looped ; 
I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered  and 

gone, 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.    Then  once  more  1 

prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not  afraid 
But  spoke,  "Here  is  David,  thy  servant !"    And  no  voice  re- 
plied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness:  but  soon  I  de- 
scried 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  305 

A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — the  vast,  the  up- 
right 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion :  and  slow  into  sight 

Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 

Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent-roof,  showed 
Saul. 

IV 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched  out 

wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to  each 

side; 
He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his 

pangs 
And  waiting  his  change,  the  king-serpent  all  heavily  hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With   the   spring-time, — so   agonized    Saul,   drear   and   stark, 

blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies  we  twine  round 
its  chords 

Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide — those  sun- 
beams like  swords ! 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one  after 
one, 

So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 

They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they  have 
fed 

Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's 
bed; 

And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows  star 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue  and  so  far ! 


306  BROWNING 

VI 

— Then  the  tune  for  which  quails  on  the  corn-land  will  each 

leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another ;  and  then,  what  has 

weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half 

mouse ! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and  our 

fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family  here. 

VII 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine-song, 

when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and  great 

hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. — And  then,  the 

last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — "Bear,  bear 

him  along, 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets  1     Are  balm 

seeds  not  here 
To  console  us  ?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the  bier. 
Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother !" — And  then,  the 

glad  chaunt 
Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens,  next,  she  whom 

we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. — And  then,  the  great 

march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends?    Then, 

the  chorus  intoned 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  307 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 

But  I  stopped  here :  for  here  in  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened 

apart ; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered :  and  sparkles 

'gan  dart 
From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at  once  with  a  start, 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there 

erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked, 
As  I  sang : — 

IX 

"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigour !    No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver 

shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched    in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust 

divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of 

wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living !  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword 

thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious  re- 
ward ? 


308  BROWNING 

Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men 

sung 
The   low   song   of   the   nearly-departed,   and   hear   her    faint 

tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  'Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  lifetime,  and  all  was 

for  best'? 
Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not 

much,  but  the  rest. 
And    thy   brothers,    the   help    and   the   contest,    the    working 

whence  grew 
Such    result    as,     from    seething    grape-bundles,     the    spirit 

strained  true : 
And  the   friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood  of   wonder 

and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's 

scope, — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch ;  a  people  is  thine ; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head  com- 
bine ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage  (like 

the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labour  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High   ambition  and   deeds   which  surpass  it,   fame  crowning 

them, — all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature — King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart,  hand,  harp  and 

voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as  when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,   in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through  its 

array, 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  309 

And   upsoareth   the   cherubim-chariot — "Saul !"   cried    I,    and 

stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should   follow.     Then  Saul,  who 

hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his 

name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to 

the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held  (he 

alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad 

bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — leaves  grasp  of 

the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to  his 

feet, 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  moun- 
tain of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and 

scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest— all  hail,  there 

they  are! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his 

crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardours  of  summer.    One  long  shudder 

thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was  stilled 
At   the   King's    self   left    standing   before   me,    released    and 

aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?    All  to  traverse  'twixt  hope 

and  despair, 


310  BROWNING 

Death  was  past,  life  not  come :  so  he  waited.    Awhile  his  right 

hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too  vacant  forthwith  to 

remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter:  'twas  Saul  as 

before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any 

more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  we  watch  from  the 

shore, 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and  entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely ;  so,  arm  folded 

arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 


XI 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 
(For  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me,)  what  next  should 

I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him? — Song  filled  to 

the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty:  beyond,  on 

what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they 

put  by? 
He  saith,  "It  is  good;"  still  he  drinks  not:  he  lets  me  praise 

life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  311 

XII 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me  the 

sheep 
Fed  in  silence — above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep ; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that  might 

lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill  and 

the  sky : 
And  I  laughed — "Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed 

with  my  flocks, 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and  the 

rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall  knowl 
Schemes  of  life,   its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage 

that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for."    And  now 

these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again;  I  grew  surer;  so,  once  more 

the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus — 

XIII 

"Yea,  my  King," 

I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that 
spring 

From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and  by 
brute : 

In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears 
fruit. 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,— how  its  stem 
trembled  first 

Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler;  then  safely  out- 
burst 


312  BROWNING 

The  fan-branches  all  round;  and  thou  mindest  when  these 

too,  in  turn, 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect:  yet  more 

was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.    Our  dates 

shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?  or  care  for  the 

plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them?    Not 

so  !  stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm-wine 

shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.    I  pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for !  the  spirit  be  thine ! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt 

enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when  inconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running  1    Each  deed  thou 

hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world;  until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him,  though 

tempests  efface, 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  everywhere 

trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each  ray  of  thy 

will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too  give 

forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons,  who  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the 

North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.    Carouse  in  the 

past! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit;  thou  diest  at  last: 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  313 

As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and  his  beauty  forever  take  flight. 
No  1    Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine !    Look  forth  o'er 

the  years ! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual;  begin  with  the 

seer's ! 
Is  Saul  dead?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb — bid 

arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to 

the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers :  whose  fame 

would  ye  know  ? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe, — Such  was  Saul,  so  he 

did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid, — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there  1    Which  fault 

to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they 

shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and  record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — the  statesman's 

great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river's 

a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet- 
winds  rave : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part 
In  thy  being!    Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that  thou 

art !" 

XIV 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O  Thou  who  didst  grant  me 

that  day, 
And  before  it  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy  help  to  essay, 


314  BROWNING 

Carry  on   and   complete  an   adventure, — my   shield   and   my 

sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was  my 

word, — 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  endeavour 
And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hopeless 

as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till,  mighty  to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance — God's  throne 

from  man's  grave ! 
Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my  voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night  I 

took  part, 
As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my  sheep, 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep ! 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and  Kidron 

retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

XV 

I  say  then, — my  song 

While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and  ever  more 
strong 

Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — he  slowly  resumed 

His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.  The  right  hand  re- 
plumed 

His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the 
swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that  his  countenance 
bathes, 

He  wipes  off  with  the  robe ;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as  of 
yore, 

And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set 
before. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  315 

He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  error  had  bent 

The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion ;  and  still,  though 

much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God  did 

choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop  till,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armour  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned  there 

awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the  tent-prop,  to 

raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — till  I  touched  on  the 

praise 
I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient  there; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first  I  was 

'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak  roots 

which  please 
To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.    I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace :  he  spoke  not,  but 

slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow :  through 

my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head,  with 

kind  power — 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized 

mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him!  but  where  was  the 

sign? 
I  yearned — "Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and  this; 


316  BROWNING 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence, 
As  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to 
dispense !" 

XVI 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.    No  harp  more — no  song  more ! 
outbroke — 

XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation :  I  saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my  brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — returned  him 

again 
His  creation's  approval  or  censure :  I  spoke  as  I  saw : 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all's  love,  yet  all's  law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty 

tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop  was 

asked. 
Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid 

bare. 
Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the  Infinite 

Care! 
Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success  ? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen  God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the  clod. 
And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all-complete, 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh  as  I  think) 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  317 

Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold,  I  could  love  if  I  durst  I 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love :  I  abstain  for  love's 

sake. 
— What,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther?  when  doors 

great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hundredth 

appall  ? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest  of 

all? 
Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?    Here,  the 

parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, — the  end,  what  Began  ? 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone 

can? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much  less 

power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one  more, 

the  best? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the  height 
This  perfection, — succeed  with  life's  day-spring,  death's  minute 

of  night? 
Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul  the  mistake, 
Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and  bid  him  awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a  new  harmony  yet 


318  BROWNING 

To  be  run,  and  continued,  and  ended— who  knows? — or  en- 
dure ! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to  make 
sure; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles  in 
this. 

XVIII 

"I  believe  it !    'Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis  I  who  receive : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 

All's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt  to  my 
prayer 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the  air. 

From  thy  will  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy  dread 
Sabaoth : 

/  will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me !    Why  am  I  not  loth 

To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too?    Why  is  it  I  dare 

Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?  What  stops  my  de- 
spair? 

This;— 'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what 
man  Would  do ! 

See  the  King— I  would  help  him  but  cannot,  the  wishes  fall 
through. 

Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to  en- 
rich, 

To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would— knowing 
which, 

I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.  Oh,  speak  through  me 
now ! 

Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love  ?  So  wouldst  thou— so  wilt 
thou! 

So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost  crown— 

And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  319 

One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in !    It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with 

death ! 
As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most;  the  strongest  shall  stand 

the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for !  my  flesh,  that  I 

seek 
In  the  Godhead !    I  seek  and  I  find  it    O  Saul,  it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee ;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever :  a  Hand  like  this 

hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee!     See  the 

Christ  stand !" 

XIX 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to  right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the  aware : 
I  repressed,   I  got  through  them  as  hardly,   as   strugglingly 

there, 
As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news — 
Life  or  death.     The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell  loosed 

with  her  crews ; 
And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge :  but  I  fainted 

not, 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported,  sup- 
pressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth ; 


320  BROWNING 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  grey  of  the  hills ; 

In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath ;  in  the  sudden  wind- 
thrills  ; 

In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each  with  eye  sidling 
still 

Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread ;  in  the  birds  stiff  and 
chill 

That  rose  heavily,  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with 
awe: 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — he  felt  the  new  law. 

The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the 
flowers ; 

The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and  moved  the 
vine-bowers : 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent  and  low, 

With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — "E'en  so,  it  is  so !" 

On  a  clear,  warm  day  in  March,  1912,  I  stood  on 
the  Piazza  Michel  Angelo  in  Florence,  with  a  copy 
of  Browning  in  my  hand,  and  gazed  with  delight  on 
the  panorama  of  the  fair  city  below.  Then  I  read 
aloud  the  first  two  stanzas  of  Old  Pictures  in  Flor- 
ence, and  realised  for  the  thousandth  time  the  defl- 
niteness  of  Browning's  poetry.  This  particular 
poem  is  a  mixture  of  art  and  doggerel;  but  even  the 
latter  is  interesting  to  lovers  of  Florence. 
Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  ? 

Did  you  ever  stand  in  front  of  the  picture  by  Lo- 
renzo that  Browning  had  in  mind,  and  observe  the 
churlish  saints  ?    Most  saints  in  Italian  pictures  look 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  321 

either  happy  or  complacent;  because  they  have  just 
been  elected  to  the  society  of  heaven  and  are  in  for 
life.  But  for  some  strange  reason,  Lorenzo's  saints, 
although  in  the  Presence,  and  worshipping  with 
music,  look  as  if  they  were  suffering  from  acute  in- 
digestion. If  one  will  wander  about  the  galleries  of 
Florence,  and  take  along  Browning,  one  will  find  the 
poet  more  specifically  informing  than  Baedeker. 

The  philosophy  of  this  poem  is  Browning's  fa- 
vorite philosophy  of  development.  He  compares 
the  perfection  of  Greek  art  with  the  imperfection  of 
the  real  human  body.  We  know  what  a  man  ought 
to  look  like ;  and  i  f  we  have  forgotten,  we  may  be- 
hold a  representation  by  a  Greek  sculptor.  Stand  at 
the  corner  of  a  city  street,  and  watch  the  men  pass; 
they  are  caricatures  of  the  manly  form.  Yet  ludi- 
crously ugly  as  they  are,  the  intention  is  clear;  we 
see  even  in  these  degradations,  what  the  figure  of  a 
man  ought  to  be.    In  Greek  art 

The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken, 
Which  the  actual  generations  garble, 
Was  reuttered. 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble — men  as  we  see 
them  are  clumsy  and  garbled  versions  of  the  origi- 
nal. But  there  is  no  value  in  lamenting  this;  it  is 
idle  for  men  to  gaze  with  regret  and  longing  at  the 


322  BROWNING 

Apollo  Belvedere.  It  is  much  better  to  remember 
that  Perfection  and  Completion  spell  Death:  only 
Imperfection  has  a  future.  What  if  the  souls  in  our 
ridiculously  ugly  bodies  become  greater  and  grander 
than  the  marble  men  of  Pheidias  ?  Giotto's  unfinished 
Campanile  is  nobler  than  the  perfect  zero  he  drew 
for  the  Pope.  In  our  imperfect  minds,  housed  in 
our  over- fat,  over-lean,  and  always  commonplace 
bodies,  exists  the  principle  of  development,  for 
whose  steady  advance  eternity  is  not  too  long. 
Statues  belong  to  time  :  man  has  Forever. 

For  some  strange  reason,  no  tourist  ever  goes  to 
Fano.  One  reason  why  I  went  there  was  simply  be- 
cause I  had  never  met  a  person  of  any  nationality 
who  had  ever  seen  the  town.  Yet  it  is  easily  accessi- 
ble, very  near  Ancona,  the  scene  of  the  Gramma- 
rian's Funeral,  and  the  place  where  Browning  wrote 
The  Guardian  Angel.  One  day  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, walking  about  Fano,  came  to  the  church  of  San 
Agostino,  in  no  way  a  remarkable  edifice,  and  there 
in  the  tiny  chapel,  over  the  altar,  they  found  Guer- 
cino's  masterpiece.  Its  calm  and  serene  beauty 
struck  an  immortal  poem  out  of  Browning's  heart; 
and  thanks  to  the  poet,  the  picture  is  now  one  of  the 
most  familiar  in  the  world.    But  no  copy  comes  near 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  323 

the  ineffable  charm  of  the  original,  as  one  sees  it  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  chapel. 

The  child  on  the  tomb  is  looking  past  the  angel's 
face  into  the  glory  of  heaven;  but  the  poet,  who 
wishes  that  he  might  take  the  place  of  the  little  child, 
declares  that  he  would  gaze,  not  toward  heaven,  but 
into  the  gracious  face  of  the  bird  of  God.  If  we 
could  only  see  life  as  the  angel  sees  it,  if  we  could 
only  see  the  whole  course  of  history,  we  should  then 
realise  that 

All  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

We  can  not  see  the  forest  for  the  trees :  the  last  place 
to  obtain  an  idea  of  the  range,  grandeur,  and  beauty 
of  a  forest,  is  in  it :  one  should  climb  a  high  moun- 
tain and  look  over  its  vast  extent.  So  we,  in  life, 
"where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan,"  believe 
that  the  world  is  some  dreadful  mistake,  full  of 
meaningless  anguish.  This  is  because  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  it  all :  we  can  not  see  far :  the  nearest  ob- 
jects, though  infinitesimal  in  size,  loom  enormous,  as 
with  the  palm  of  your  hand  you  can  cut  off  the  sun. 
But  if  we  could  only  see  the  end  from  the  beginning, 
if  we  could  get  the  angel's  view-point,  the  final  re- 


324  BROWNING 

suit  would  be  beauty.  Browning  is  not  satisfied  with 
Keats's  doctrine 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

He  shows  us  what  happened  to  Aprile  with  this  phi- 
losophy. Browning  adds  the  doctrine  of  love.  The 
moment  we  realise  that  the  universe  is  conceived  in 
terms  of  beauty,  love  fills  our  hearts :  love  for  our 
fellow-beings,  who  are  making  the  journey  through 
life  with  us;  and  love  for  God,  the  author  of  it  all, 
just  as  a  child  loves  one  who  gives  it  the  gift  of  its 
heart's  desire.  That  the  supreme  duty  of  life  is  love 
is  simply  one  more  illustration  of  Browning's  stead- 
fast adherence  to  the  Gospel  of  Christ. 

THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL 

A  PICTURE  AT  FANO 
1855 


Dear  and  great  Angel,  would st  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me  I 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  325 

II 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 

— And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world ;  for  me,  discarding 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door. 

Ill 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 
Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God !    And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread  ? 

IV 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 


How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !  All  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 


326  BROWNING 

VI 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend!) — that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently, — with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

VII 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 

To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 
And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 

—My  angel  with  me  too :  and  since  I  care 
For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 
And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 

Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent)  —. 

VIII 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 
At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong — 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  love  is  here.    Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

The  three  poems,  Caliban  on  Setebos,  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra,  and  A  Death  in  the  Desert,  should  be  read  in 
that   order;    for  there   is  a   logical   order   in  the 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  327 

thought.  The  first  is  God  as  an  amphibious  brute 
would  imagine  him:  the  second  is  noble  Hebrew 
theism:  the  third  is  the  Christian  God  of  Love. 
Whilst  the  second  is  the  finest  poem  of  the  three,  the 
first  is  the  most  original.  The  word  "upon"  is  iron- 
ical :  it  is  Caliban's  treatise  on  theology.  We  read 
Caliban  on  God,  as  we  read  Mill  on  Political  Econ- 
omy: for  Caliban,  like  many  a  human  theologian, 
does  not  scruple  to  speak  the  last  word  on  the  nature 
of  the  Supreme  Being.  The  citation  from  the 
Psalms  is  a  rebuke  to  gross  anthropomorphism: 
Caliban,  like  the  Puritans,  has  simply  made  God  in 
his  own  image. 

The  difference  between  Shakespeare's  and  Brown- 
ing's Caliban  is  simply  the  difference  between 
Shakespeare  and  Browning.  Shakespeare  made  the 
monster  for  decorative  purposes,  to  satisfy  his  love 
of  the  grotesque,  as  an  architect  placed  gargoyles  on 
a  cathedral :  the  grotesque  is  an  organic  part  of 
romantic  art.  Browning  is  interested  not  in  Cali- 
ban's appearance,  but  in  his  processes  of  thought. 
Suppose  a  monster,  half  fish,  half  beast,  living  with 
supreme  comfort  in  the  slime,  could  think:  what 
kind  of  God  would  he  imagine  had  created  this 
world  ? 

Caliban  speaks  in  the  third  person  (does  Brown- 


328  BROWNING 

ing  make  a  slip  when  he  changes  occasionally  to  the 
first?)  in  order  to  have  indicated  the  low  order  of 
his  intelligence;  just  as  a  little  child  says,  "Don't 
hurt  her :  she  hasn't  done  anything  wrong."  He  is 
lying  in  liquid  refuse,  with  little  lizards  deliciously 
tickling  his  spine  (such  things  are  entirely  a  matter 
of  taste,  what  would  be  odious  to  us  would  be  heaven 
to  a  sow)  and  having  nothing  to  do  for  the  moment, 
like  a  man  in  absolute  leisure,  turns  his  thoughts  to 
God.  He  believes  that  God  is  neither  good  nor  bad, 
but  simply  capricious.  What's  the  use  of  being  God, 
if  you  can't  do  what  you  like?  He  treats  earth's 
creatures  as  a  wanton  boy  treats  his  toys ;  they  be- 
long to  me;  why  shouldn't  I  break  them  if  I  choose? 
No  one  ought  to  complain  of  misfortunes :  you  can 
not  expect  God  is  going  to  reward  the  virtuous  and 
punish  the  guilty.  He  has  no  standards  whatever. 
Just  as  I,  Caliban,  sit  here  and  watch  a  procession  of 
crabs  :  I  might  lazily  make  up  my  mind,  in  a  kind  of 
sporting  interest,  to  count  them  as  they  pass ;  to  let 
twenty  go  in  safety,  and  smash  the  twenty-first,  lov- 
ing not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so.  When  I  feel 
like  it,  I  help  some  creatures;  if  in  another  mood,  I 
torment  others ;  that's  the  way  God  treats  us,  that's 
the  way  I  would  act  if  I  were  God. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  329 

As  Caliban's  theology  has  much  of  the  human  in 
it,  so  his  practical  reasoning  is  decidedly  human  in 
its  superstition.  Granted  that  we  are  in  the  hands 
of  a  childish  and  capricious  God,  who  amuses  him- 
self with  torturing  us,  who  laughs  at  our  faces  dis- 
torted with  pain,  what  is  the  thing  we  ought  to  do  ? 
How  shall  we  best  manage?  Caliban's  advice  is 
clear:  don't  let  Him  notice  you:  don't  get  promi- 
nent :  above  all,  never  boast  of  your  good  fortune, 
for  that  will  surely  draw  God's  attention,  and  He 
will  put  you  where  you  belong.  This  superstition, 
that  God  is  against  us,  is  deep-seated  in  human  na- 
ture, as  the  universal  practice  of  "touching  wood" 
sufficiently  demonstrates.  If  a  man  says,  "I  haven't 
had  a  cold  this  winter,"  his  friends  will  advise  him 
to  touch  wood ;  and  if  he  wakes  up  the  next  morning 
snuffling,  he  will  probably  soliloquise,  "What  a  fool 
I  was !  Why  couldn't  I  keep  still  ?  Why  did  I  have 
to  mention  it  ?    Now  see  what  I've  got  I" 

Caliban  disagreed  with  his  mother  Sycorax  on 
one  important  point.  She  believed  in  the  future 
life.  Caliban  says  such  a  belief  is  absurd.  There 
can  be  nothing  worse  than  this  life.  Its  good  mo- 
ments are  simply  devices  of  God  to  strengthen  us  so 
that  He  can  torture  us  again,  just  as  in  the  good  old 


330  BROWNING 

times  the  executioners  gave  the  they  were 

tormenting  some  powerful  stimulant,  so  that  they 
might  return  to  consciousness  an  •  ffei ,  for  noth- 
ing cheated  the  spectators  worse  than  to  have  the 
victim  die  during  the  early  stages  of  the  torture. 
The  object  was  to  keep  the  wretch  alive  as  long  as 
possible.  Thus  in  this  life  we  have  moments  of 
comparative  ease  and  rest,  wherein  we  recuperate  a 
little,  just  as  the  cat  lets  the  mouse  recover  strength 
enough  to  imagine  he  is  going  to  get  away. 

Caliban  is  of  course  an  absolute  and  convinced 
pessimist.  A  malevolent  giant  is  not  so  bad  a  God 
as  an  insane  child.  And  Browning  means  that  pes- 
simism is  what  we  should  naturally  expect  from  so 
rudimentary  an  intellect  as  Caliban's,  which  judges 
the  whole  order  of  the  universe  from  proximate  and 
superficial  evidences. 

The  close  of  the  poem  is  a  good  commentary  on 
some  human  ideas  of  what  kind  of  service  is  pleas- 
ing to  God.  Poor  Caliban !  he  had  saved  up  some 
quails,  meaning  to  have  a  delicious  meal.  But  in  his 
fear  he  cries  to  God,  I  will  let  them  fly,  if  you  will 
only  spare  me  this  time !  I  will  not  eat  whelks  for  a 
month,  I  will  eat  no  chocolates  during  Lent,  any- 
thing to  please  God ! 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  331 

CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS;  OR,  NATURAL 
THEOLOGY  IN  THE  ISLAND 

1864 

"Thou   thoughtest   that   I   was   altogether   such   a   one   as 
thyself." 

['Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin. 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh : 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant, 
Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 
And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch, — 
He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web 
(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times) 
And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 
Touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God. 
Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes — ha, 
Could  He  but  know !  and  time  to  vex  is  now, 
When  talk  is  safer  than  in  winter-time. 
Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep 
In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task, 
And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos ! 

'Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars  ;  the  stars  came  otherwise ; 
Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that : 


332  BROWNING 

Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 

And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same. 

'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease: 

He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His  cold, 

Nor  cure  its  ache.    'Hath  spied  an  icy  fish 

That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock-stream  where  she  lived, 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  lukewarm  brine 

O'  the  lazy  sea  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun) 

Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not  born  to  breathe, 

And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 

Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike :  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 

Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 

Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech ; 

Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam, 

That  floats  and  feeds ;  a  certain  badger  brown 

He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge  eye 

By  moonlight ;  and  the  pie  with  the  long  tongue 

That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm, 

And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 

But  will  not  eat  the  ants  ;  the  ants  themselves 

That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 

About  their  hole— He  made  all  these  and  more, 

Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite :  how  else  ? 

He  could  not,  Himself,  make  a  second  self 

To  be  His  mate ;  as  well  have  made  Himself : 

He  would  not  make  what  he  mislikes  or  slights, 

An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains : 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport, 

Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a  manner,  be— 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  333 

Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 

Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 

Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too, — that  is  it. 

Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 

Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into  mash, 

Add  honeycomb  and  pods,  I  have  perceived, 

Which  bite  like  finches  when  they  bill  and  kiss, — 

Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink  up  all, 

Quick,  quick,  till  maggots  scamper  through  my  brain; 

Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded  thyme, 

And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 

I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay : 

Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 

Able  to  fly  ? — for,  there,  see,  he  hath  wings, 

And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to  admire, 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence, 

There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live, 

Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the  horns 

Of  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din, 

Saucy  through  their  veined  wings,  and  mind  me  not. 

In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 

And  he  lay  stupid-like, — why,  I  should  laugh ; 

And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 

Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 

Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow  again, — 

Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might  take  or  else 

Not  take  my  fancy :  I  might  hear  his  cry, 

And  give  the  mankin  three  sound  legs  for  one, 

Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like  an  egg, 

And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely  clay. 

Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the  thyme, 

Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  become  alive, 

Making  and  marring  clay  at  will?    So  He. 


334  BROWNING 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel :    He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea; 
'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twenty-first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 
'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple  spots 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off; 
'Say,  this  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a  worm, 
And  two  worms  he  whose  nippers  end  in  red ; 
As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do :  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i'  the  main, 

Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were  guessed, 

But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be  sure  1 

Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than  Himself, 

And  envieth  that,  so  helped,  such  things  do  more 

Than  He  who  made  them  !    What  consoles  but  this  ? 

That  they,  unless  through  Him,  do  nought  at  all, 

And  must  submit:  what  other  use  in  things? 

'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder-joint 

That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the  scream  o'  the  jay 

When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the  feathers  blue : 

Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate  the  jay 

Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their  foe  is  hurt : 

Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and  boast  forsooth 

"I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty  thing, 

"I  make  the  cry  my  maker  cannot  make 

"With  his  great  round  mouth ;  he  must  blow  through  mine  I" 

Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot?    So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill  at  ease? 
Aha,  that  is  a  question !    Ask,  for  that, 
What  knows, — the  something  over  Setebos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found  and  fought, 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  335 

Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing,  perchance. 

There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His  head, 

Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor  grief, 

Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in  some  way. 

I  joy  because  the  quails  come ;  would  not  joy 

Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a  mind  : 

This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to,  doth. 

'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its  couch, 

But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care  that  way. 

It  may  look  up,  work  up, — the  worse  for  those 

It  works  on  I    'Careth  but  for  Setebos 

The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 

Who,  making  Himself  feared  through  what  He  does, 

Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  he  cannot  soar 

To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life ; 

Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very  spite 

Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon  real, 

These  good  things  to  match  those  as  hips  do  grapes. 

'Tis  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and  sport. 

Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his  books 

Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the  isle : 

Vexed,  'stitched  a  book  of  broad  leaves,  arrow-shaped, 

Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodigious  words ; 

Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a  name ; 

Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's  robe 

The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  oncelot ; 

And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker  than  youngling  mole, 

A  four-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower  and  couch, 

Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and  mind  his  eye, 

And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife : 

'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill  crane 

He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight  disgorge  ; 

Also  a  sea-beast,  lumpish,  which  he  snared, 

Blinded  the  eyes  of,  and  brought  somewhat  tame, 

And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the  drudge 


336  BROWNING 

In  a  hole  o'  the  rock  and  calls  him  Caliban ; 
A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and  bites. 
'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way, 
Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes  :  so  He. 

His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all  things 

Which  Setebos  vexed  only :  'holds  not  so. 

Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness  He  might  vex. 

Had  He  meant  other,  while  His  hand  was  in, 

Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn  could  prick, 

Or  plate  my  scalp  with  bone  against  the  snow, 

Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and  joint, 

Like  an  ore's  armour  ?    Ay, — so  spoil  His  sport  I 

He  is  the  One  now :  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what  profits  Him. 

Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good;  but  why? 

'Gets  good  no  otherwise.    This  blinded  beast 

Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his  nose, 

But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help,  but  hate 

Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him :  He  hath  eyes. 

Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 

Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much  craft, 

By  no  means  for  the  love  of  what  is  worked. 

'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the  world 

When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer-time, 

And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not  much, 

Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and  strength. 

'Falls  to  make  something:  'piled  yon  pile  of  turfs, 

And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of  soft  white  chalk, 

And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 

And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 

And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  skull  a-top, 

Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill. 

No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake ; 

'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again :  so  He. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  33Z 

'Saith  He  is  terrible :  watch  His  feats  in  proof ! 

One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 

He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 

Just  as  He  favours  Prosper,  who  knows  why? 

So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 

'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced  them  firm 

With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she-tortoises 

Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here :  well,  one  wave, 

Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 

Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its  large  tongue, 

And  licked  the  whole  labour  flat :  so  much  for  spite. 

'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it  lies) 

Where,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the  shade : 

Often  they  scatter  sparkles:  there  is  force! 

'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied  once 

And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a  stone. 

Please  Him  and  hinder  this? — What  Prosper  does? 

Aha,  if  He  would  tell  me  how  !    Not  He  ! 

There  is  the  sport :  discover  how  or  die ! 

All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o'  the  isle 

Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up  trees ; 

Those  at  His  mercy, — why,  they  please  Him  most 

When  .  .  .  when  .  .  .  well,  never  try  the  same  way  twice ! 

Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may  grow  wroth. 

You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play  Him  off, 

Sure  of  the  issue.    'Doth  the  like  himself : 

'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 

But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my  thumb, 

And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  defence : 

'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 

Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 

For  fright  at  my  approach :  the  two  ways  please. 

But  what  would  move  my  choler  more  than  this, 

That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life 

To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days  to  come, 


338  BROWNING 

Saying,  forsooth,  in  the  inmost  of  its  heart, 

"Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 

"And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute, 

"So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always." — Ay? 

Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what  "must"  means ! 

'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord?    So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus, 

And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 

So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  His  strength :  no  change, 

If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new  world 

To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watching  this, — 

If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 

Some  strange  day, — or,  suppose,  grow  into  it 

As  grubs  grow  butterflies :  else,  here  are  we, 

And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at  all. 

'Believeth  with  the  life,  the  pain  shall  stop. 
His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death    . 
He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted  friends  : 
Idly!    He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our  life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through  pain, 
Saving  last  pain  for  worst, — with  which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.    'Sees,  himself, 
Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and  pink, 
Bask  on  the  pompion-bell  above :  kills  both. 
'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  their  ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives : 
Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  misconceive,  suppose 
This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 
And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him ; 
Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark  nights, 
Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to  laugh, 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  339 

And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed  as  now : 
Outside,  'groans,  curses.    If  He  caught  me  here, 
O'erheard  this  speech,  and  asked  "What  chucklest  at?" 
'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 
Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the  best, 
Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 
Or  push  my  tame  beast  for  the  ore  to  taste : 
While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 
And  sung  it,  "What  I  hate,  be  consecrate 
"To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 
"For  Thee;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor  me?" 
Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes  mend, 
Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 
That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 
And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 
Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 


[What,  what?    A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once! 

Crickets  stop  hissing ;  not  a  bird — or,  yes, 

There  scuds  His  raven  that  has  told  Him  all ! 

It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling !    Ha !    The  wind 

Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house  o'  the  move, 

And  fast  invading  fires  begin !    White  blaze — 

A  tree's  head  snaps — and  there,  there,  there,  there,  there, 

His  thunder  follows  1    Fool  to  gibe  at  Him  1 

Lo !  'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos ! 

'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his  upper  lip, 

Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat  this  month 

One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may  'scape!] 

In  the  great  poem  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  a  quite  differ- 
ent reason  from  that  of  Caliban's  is  suggested  for 
the  drawbacks  and  sufferings  of  life.     They  are  a 


340  BROWNING 

part  of  the  divine  machinery  employed  by  infinite 
wisdom  to  further  human  development,  to  make  us 
ultimately  fit  to  see  His  face.  There  can  be  no  true 
progress  without  obstacles:  no  enjoyment  without 
its  opposite:  no  vacation  without  duties:  no  virtue 
without  sin. 

The  second  line  of  the  poem  is  startling  in  its  di- 
rect contradiction  of  the  language  and  lamentation 
of  conventional  poetry.  Regret  for  lost  youth  and 
terror  before  old  age  are  stock  ideas  in  poetry,  and 
in  human  meditation ;  but  here  we  are  invited  to  look 
forward  to  old  age  as  the  best  time  of  life.  Not  to 
grow  old  gracefully,  in  resignation,  but  to  grow  old 
eagerly,  in  triumph — this  is  the  Rabbi's  suggestion. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  is  right,  pro- 
vided one  lives  a  mental,  rather  than  an  animal  ex- 
istence. A  short  time  ago,  Mr.  Joseph  H.  Choate 
was  addressing  a  large  company  in  New  York :  he 
said,  "Unquestionably  the  best  period  of  life  is  the 
time  between  seventy  and  eighty  years  of  age :  and  I 
advise  you  all  to  hurry  up  and  get  there  as  soon  as 
you  can." 

God  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth.  Our  doubts  and 
fears,  our  sorrows  and  pains,  are  spurs,  stimulants 
to  advance;  rejoice  that  we  have  them,  for  they  are 
proofs  that  we  are  alive  and  moving! 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  341 

In  the  seventh  stanza  comes  an  audacious  but 
cheering  thought.  Many  thinkers  regard  the  deepest 
sorrow  of  life  as  rising  from  the  disparity  between 
our  ideals  and  our  achievement;  Schiller,  in  his 
poem,  Das  Ideal  und  das  Leben,  has  expressed  this 
cause  of  woe  in  beautiful  language.  Browning  says 
boldly, 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

This  paradox,  which  comforts  while  it  mocks, 
means,  "My  achievements  are  ridiculously  small  in 
comparison  with  my  hopes,  my  ambitions,  my 
dreams :  thank  God  for  all  this !  Thank  God  I  was 
not  content  with  low  aims,  thank  God  I  had  my 
aspirations  and  have  them  still :  they  point  to  future 
development." 

In  the  twenty-third,  twenty- fourth  and  twenty- 
fifth  stanzas,  Browning  suddenly  returns  to  this 
idea :  in  the  appraisement  of  the  human  soul,  efforts, 
which  if  unsuccessful,  count  for  nothing  in  worldly 
estimation,  pay  an  enormous  ultimate  dividend,  and 
must  therefore  be  rated  high.  The  reason  why  the 
world  counts  only  things  done  and  not  things  at- 
tempted, is  because  the  world's  standards  are  too 
coarse :  they  are  adapted  only  for  gross  and  obvious 
results.    You  can  not  weigh  diamonds  on  hay  scales : 


342  BROWNING 

the  indicator  would  show  precisely  nothing.  An<i 
yet  one  diamond,  too  fine  for  these  huge  scale?, 
might  be  of  more  value  than  thousands  of  tons  of 
hay. 

From  the  twenty-sixth  stanza  to  the  end,  Brown- 
ing takes  up  the  figure  of  the  Potter,  the  Wheel,  and 
the  Clay.  I  think  that  he  was  drawn  to  use  this 
metaphor,  not  from  Scripture,  but  as  a  protest 
against  the  use  of  it  in  Fitzgerald's  Omar  Khayyam. 
Fitzgerald  published  his  translation  in  1859;  and  al- 
though it  attracted  no  public  attention,  it  is  certainly 
possible  that  Browning  saw  it.  He  would  have  en- 
joyed its  melodious  beauty,  but  the 'philosophy  of 
the  poem  would  have  been  to  him  detestable  and 
abhorrent.  Much  is  made  there  of  the  Potter,  mean- 
ing blind  destiny :  and  the  moral  is,  "Drink !  the  Past 
gone,  seize  To-day!"  Browning  explicitly  rejects 
and  scorns  this  teaching:  it  is  propounded  by  fools 
for  the  benefit  of  other  fools. 

Fool !  all  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 

What  entered  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

In  Brownings  metaphor,  the  Potter  is  God:  the 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  343 

Wheel  is  the  whirling  course  of  life's  experiences: 
the  Clay  is  man.  God  holds  us  on  the  wheel  to  turn 
us  into  the  proper  shape.  Owing  to  our  flaws,  the 
strain  is  sometimes  too  great,  and  some  of  us  are 
warped  and  twisted  by  this  stern  discipline :  other 
characters,  made  of  better  material,  constantly  grow 
more  beautiful  and  more  serviceable  under  the  treat- 
ment. Browning  had  suffered  the  greatest  sorrow 
of  his  life  when  he  wrote  this  poem,  and  yet  he  had 
faith  enough  to  say  in  the  thirty-first  stanza,  that 
not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst,  did  he,  bound 
dizzily  to  the  terrible  wheel  of  life,  once  lose  his  be- 
lief that  he  was  in  God's  hands  and  that  the  deep  cut- 
tings were  for  his  ultimate  benefit. 

In  the  making  of  a  cup,  the  Potter  engraved 
around  the  base  lovely  images  of  youth  and  pleasure, 
and  near  the  rim  skulls  and  signs  of  death :  but  what 
is  a  cup  for?  It  is  meant  for  the  Master's  lips.  The 
nearer  therefore  we  approach  to  death,  the  nearer 
we  are  to  God's  presence,  who  is  making  us  fit  to 
slake  His  thirst.  Finished  at  last,  we  are  done  for- 
ever with  life's  wheel:  we  come  to  the  banquet,  the 
festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal,  the 
glorious  appearance  of  the  Master. 


344  BROWNING 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 
1864 

I 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith  "A  whole  I  planned, 
"Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God :  see  all  nor  be  afraid !" 

II 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
"Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
"Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them 
all !" 

Ill 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate :  folly  wide  the  mark ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the  maw-cramrned 
beast? 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  345 

V 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  I 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

VI 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe  1 

VII 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

VIII 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

IX 
Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 


346  BROWNING 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to  live  and  learn  ?" 

X 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  Thine ! 

"I  see  the  whole  design, 
"I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too : 

"Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan : 

"Thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 
"Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do  I" 

XI 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest ; 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best! 

XII 

Let  us  not  always  say 
"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
"I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole !" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  "All  good  things 
"Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps 
soul!" 

XIII 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute;  a  god  though  in  the  germ. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  347 

XIV 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

XV 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

XVI 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
"Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day.H 

XVII 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

"That  acquiescence  vain : 
"The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past" 

XVIII 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day : 


348  BROWNING 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

XIX 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 
Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made: 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.    Thou  waitedest  age :  wait  death  nor  be  afraid  I 

XX 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 
Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

XXI 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last ! 

XXII 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me :  we  all  surmise, 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that:  whom  shall  my  soul  believe? 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  349 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice : 

XXIV 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 
That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount: 

XXV 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped ; 

All  I  could  ever  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

XXVI 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor !  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 

When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day !" 

XXVII 
Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 


350  BROWNING 

What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter  and  clay  endure 

XXVIII 

He  fixed  thee  rnid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 
This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

XXIX 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Scull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 

XXX 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  I 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  a-glow ! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  need'st  thou  with  earth's 
wheel  ? 

XXXI 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men ; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I, — to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 
Bound  dizzily, — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  351 

XXXII 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  : 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 
What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same ! 

Browning  wrote  four  remarkable  poems  dealing 
with  music :  A  Toccata  of  Gahippi's,  Master  Hugues 
of  Saxe-Gotha,  Abt  Vogler,  and  Charles  Avis  on.  In 
Abt  Vogler  the  miracle  of  extemporisation  has  just 
been  accomplished.  The  musician  sits  at  the  keys, 
tears  running  down  his  face :  tears  of  weakness,  be- 
cause of  the  storm  of  divine  inspiration  that  has 
passed  through  him:  tears  of  sorrow,  because  he 
never  can  recapture  the  fine,  careless  rapture  of  his 
unpremeditated  music:  tears  of  joy,  because  he 
knows  that  on  this  particular  day  he  has  been  the 
channel  chosen  by  the  Infinite  God. 

If  he  had  only  been  an  architect,  his  dream  would 
have  remained  in  a  permanent  form.  The  armies  of 
workmen  would  have  done  his  will,  and  the  world 
would  have  admired  it  for  ages.  If  he  had  only 
been  a  poet  or  a  painter,  his  inspiration  would  have 
taken  the  form  of  fixed  type  or  enduring  shape  and 
color:  but  in  the  instance  of  music,  the  armies  of 
thoughts  that  have  worked  together  in  absolute  har- 


352  BROWNING 

mony  to  elevate  the  noble  building  of  sound,  which 
has  risen  like  an  exhalation,  have  vanished  together 
with  the  structure  they  animated,  It  has  gone  like 
the  wonderful  beauty  of  some  fantastic  cloud. 

His  sorrow  at  this  particular  irreparable  loss  gives 
wray  to  rapture  as  he  reflects  on  the  source  whence 
came  the  inspiration.  He  could  not  possibly  have 
constructed  such  wonderful  music:  it  was  the  God 
welling  up  within  him :  for  this  past  hour  divine  in- 
spiration has  spoken  through  him.  He  has  had  one 
glimpse  at  the  Celestial  Radiance.  How  can  he  now 
think  that  the  same  God  who  expanded  his  heart 
lacks  the  power  to  fill  it  ?  The  Source  from  whence 
this  river  came  must  be  inexhaustible,  and  it  was 
vouchsafed  to  him  to  feel  for  a  short  time  its  infinite 
richness.  The  broken  arcs  on  earth  are  the  earnest 
of  the  perfect  round  in  heaven. 

Abt  Vogler  says  that  the  philosophers  may  each 
make  his  guess  at  the  meaning  of  this  earthly  scheme 
of  weal  and  woe :  but  the  musicians,  the  musicians 
who  have  felt  in  their  own  bosoms  the  presence  of 
the  Divine  Power  and  heard  its  marvellous  voice, — 
why,  the  philosophers  may  reason  and  welcome :  'tis 
we  musicians  know ! 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  353 

ABT  VOGLER 

(after  he  has  been  extemporising  upon  the  musical 
instrument  of  his  invention) 


1864 


Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon 
willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each   from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep  re- 
moved,— 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he 
loved  1 

II 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned  to 
raise ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and  now 
combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his  praise  1 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to 
hell, 
Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace 
well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 


354  BROWNING 

III 

And   another   would   mount   and   march,   like   the   excellent 
minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a 
crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night — 
Outlined  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul 
was  in  sight. 

IV 

In  sight?    Not  half  I  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match 
man's  birth, 
Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach 
the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the 
sky: 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with 
mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering 
star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze:  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near 
nor  far. 

V 

Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and 

glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 

Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at 

last: 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  355 

Dr  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the  body 
and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth 
their  new : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now ;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon ; 
And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both?  for  I  was  made 
perfect  too. 

VI 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my 
soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly 
forth, 
<M1  through  music  and  me !   For  think,  had  I  painted  the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder- 
worth  : 
H'«  d  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect  proceeds 
from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is 
told; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled : — 


VII 


But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and,  lo,  they  are ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but 
a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught: 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use !    I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought : 

And  there !    Ye  have  heard  and  seen :  consider  and  bow  the 
head! 


356  BROWNING 

VIII 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared; 
Gone!  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too 
slow  ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance:  is  this  your  comfort  to  me!5 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God:  ay,  what  was, 
shall  be. 

IX 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Xame . 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  nil  the  heart  that  thy  power  ex- 
pands? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !     What  was.  shall  live  as 
before; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good.  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good 
more ; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs ;  in  the  heaven  a  pel  fed  round. 

X 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist ; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself ;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  mek      si 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  oi  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard. 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once :  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by. 


BROWNINGS    OPTIMISM  357 

XI 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ?  Have  we  withered  or  agonized? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue 
thence  ? 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should  be 
prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear. 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe: 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome :  'tis  we  musicians  know. 

XII 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;  silence  resumes  her  reign : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.    I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Sun-eying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep ; 
Which,  hark.  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 
found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 

In  the  autumn  following  his  wife's  death  Brown- 
ing wrote  the  poem  Prospicc,  which  title  means 
Look  Forward!  This  is  the  most  original  poem  on 
death  in  English  Literature.  It  shows  that  Brown- 
ing strictly  and  consistently  followed  the  moral  ap- 
pended to  The  Glove — Vementi  occurritc  }norbo, 
run  to  meet  approaching  disaster ! 

Although  the  prayer-book  expresses  the  wish  that 


358  BROWNING 

the  Good  Lord  will  deliver  us  from  battle,  murder, 
and  sudden  death,  that  hope  was  founded  on  the  old 
superstition  that  it  was  more  important  how  a  man 
died  than  how  he  lived.  If  a  man  who  had  lived  a 
righteous,  sober  and  godly  life  died  while  playing 
cards  or  in  innocent  laughter,  with  no  opportunity 
for  the  ministrations  of  a  priest,  his  chances  for  the 
next  world  were  thought  to  be  slim.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  damnable  scoundrel  on  the  scaffold,  with  the 
clergyman's  assurances  assented  to,  was  supposed  to 
be  jerked  into  heaven.  This  view  of  life  and  death 
was  firmly  held  even  by  so  sincere  and  profound  a 
thinker  as  Hamlet:  which  explains  his  anguish  at 
the  fate  of  his  father  killed  in  his  sleep,  and  his  own 
refusal  to  slay  the  villain  Claudius  at  prayer. 

It  is  probable  that  thousands  of  worshippers  who 
now  devoutly  pray  to  be  delivered  from  sudden 
death,  would  really  prefer  that  exit  to  any  other. 
The  reason  is  clear  enough :  it  is  to  avoid  the  pain  of 
slow  dissolution,  the  sufferings  of  the  death-bed,  and 
the  horrible  fear  of  the  dark.  Now  Browning  boldly 
asks  that  he  may  be  spared  nothing  of  all  these  grim 
terrors.  True  to  his  conception  of  a  poet,  as  a  man 
who  should  understand  all  human  experiences,  he 
hopes  that  he  may  pass  conscious  and  aware  through 
the  wonderful  experience  of  dying.    Most  sick  folk 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  359 

become  unconscious  hours  before  death  and  slip 
over  the  line  in  total  coma :  Browning  wants  to  stay 
awake. 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 

I  want  to  taste  it  all,  the  physical  suffering,  the  fear 
of  the  abyss :  I  want  to  hear  the  raving  of  the  fiend- 
voices,  to  be  in  the  very  thick  of  the  fight.  He  adds 
the  splendid  line, 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

Brave  hearts  turn  defeat  into  victory. 

Browning  died  twenty-eight  years  after  he  wrote 
this  poem,  and  his  prayer  was  granted.  He  was 
conscious  almost  up  to  the  last  second,  and  fully 
aware  of  the  nearness  of  death.  Even  the  manner 
of  death,  as  described  in  the  first  line  of  the  poem, 
came  to  be  his  own  experience :  for  he  died  of  bron- 
chitis. 

PROSPICE 

1864 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 


360  BROWNING 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !    I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

One  can  hardly  repress  a  smile  at  Browning's 
thorough-going  optimism,  when  he  reads  the  poem, 
Apparent  Failure,  and  then  glances  back  at  the  title. 
Apparent  failure !  Of  all  the  defeated  sons  of  earth, 
the  nameless  suicides  whose  wretched  bodies  are 
taken  to  the  public  morgue,  ought  surely,  we  should 
imagine,  to  be  classed  as  absolute  failures.  But 
Browning  does  not  think  so.  It  is  possible,  he  says, 
that  the  reason  why  these  poor  outcasts  abandoned 
life,  was  because  their  aspirations  were  so  tremen- 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  361 

clously  high  that  dull  reality  overpowered  their 
spirits.  Goodness  is  better  than  badness :  meekness 
better  than  ferocity:  calm  sense  than  mad  ravings. 
But,  after  all,  these  poor  fellows  were  God's  crea- 
tures. His  sun  will  eventually  pierce  the  darkest 
cloud  earth  can  stretch.  Somewhere,  after  many 
ages  in  the  next  life,  these  men  will  develop  into 
something  better  under  the  sunshine  of  the  smile  of 
God. 

APPARENT  FAILURE 

1864 

"We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." 

Paris  Newspaper. 
I 

No,  for  I'll  save  it !    Seven  years  since, 

I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a  day 
To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince ; 

Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way : 
Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 

I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortschakoff, 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 
So  sauntered  till — what  met  my  eyes? 

II 

Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue  1 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned : 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 

Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 
One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case ; 


362  BROWNING 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered, — stalked, 
Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked 
Let  them  !    No  Briton's  to  be  baulked  I 


III 


First  came  the  silent  gazers ;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we're  thankful  for; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves :  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin's  atoned. 


IV 


Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that ! 

The  reverence  struck  me ;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch :  each  had  his  berth, 

His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast,- 
Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best. 


How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart? 
You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  363 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller !    Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclench  your  fist ! 

VI 

And  this — why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 

Or  black, — poor  fellow  that  is  blue ! 
What  fancy  was  it  turned  your  brain  ? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you ! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust ! 

VII 

it's  wiser  being  good  than  bad ; 

It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce : 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched ; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst. 

The  poem  Rephan,  the  title  of  which  was  taken 
from  the  Book  of  Acts,  has  the  same  pleasant  teach- 
ing we  find  in  the  play  by  Ludwig  Fulda,  called 
Schlaraffenland,  published  in  1899.  In  this  drama, 
a  boy,  ragged,  cold,  and  chronically  hungry,  falls 
asleep  in  a  miserable  room,  and  dreams  that  he  is  in 


364  BROWNING 

a  country  of  unalloyed  delight.  Broiled  chickens 
fly  slowly  by,  easy  to  clutch  and  devour :  expensive 
wardrobes  await  his  immediate  pleasure,  and  every 
conceivable  wish  is  instantly  and  completely  fulfilled. 
For  a  short  time  the  boy  is  in  ecstasies  of  joy :  then 
the  absence  of  effort,  of  counterbalancing  privation, 
begins  to  make  his  heart  dull :  finally  the  paradise  be- 
comes so  intolerable  that  he  wakes  with  a  scream — 
wakes  in  a  dark,  cold  room,  wakes  in  rags  with  his 
belly  empty:  and  wakes  in  rapture  at  finding  the 
good  old  earth  of  struggle  and  toil  around  him. 

Contentment  is  stagnation :  development  is  happi- 
ness. The  mystery  of  life,  its  uncertainty,  its  joys 
paid  for  by  effort,  these  make  human  existence 
worth  while. 

Browning  delights  to  prove  that  the  popular  long- 
ing for  static  happiness  would  result  in  misery :  that 
the  sharp  sides  of  life  sting  us  into  the  real  joy  of 
living.  He  loves  to  take  popular  proverbs,  which 
sum  up  the  unconscious  pessimism  of  humanity,  and 
then  show  how  false  they  are  to  fact.  For  example, 
we  hear  every  day  the  expression,  "No  rose  without 
a  thorn,"  and  we  know  very  well  what  is  meant.  In 
The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Browning  says 

So  a  thorn  comes  to  the  aid  of  and  completes  the  rose. 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  365 

REPHAN 

1889 

How  I  lived,  ere  my  human  life  began 

In  this  world  of  yours, — like  you,  made  man, — 

When  my  home  was  the  Star  of  my  God  Rephan? 

Come  then  around  me,  close  about, 
World-weary  earth-born  ones  !    Darkest  doubt 
Or  deepest  despondency  keeps  you  out? 

Nowise !    Before  a  word  I  speak, 

Let  my  circle  embrace  your  worn,  your  weak, 

Brow-furrowed  old  age,  youth's  hollow  cheek — 

Diseased  in  the  body,  sick  in  soul, 

Pinched  poverty,  satiate  wealth, — your  whole 

Array  of  despairs !    Have  I  read  the  roll? 

All  here?    Attend,  perpend  !    O  Star 
Of  my  God  Rephan,  what  wonders  are 
In  thy  brilliance  fugitive,  faint  and  far ! 

Far  from  me,  native  to  thy  realm, 

Who  shared  its  perfections  which  o'erwhelm 

Mind  to  conceive.    Let  drift  the  helm, 

Let  drive  the  sail,  dare  unconfined 

Embark  for  the  vastitude,  O  Mind, 

Of  an  absolute  bliss  !    Leave  earth  behind  1 

Here,  by  extremes,  at  a  mean  you  guess : 
There,  all's  at  most — not  more,  not  less : 
Nowhere  deficiency  nor  excess. 

No  want — whatever  should  be,  is  now : 

No  growth — that's  change,  and  change  comes — how 

To  royalty  born  with  crown  on  brow  ? 


366  BROWNING 

Nothing  begins — so  needs  to  end : 
Where  fell  it  short  at  first?    Extend 
Only  the  same,  no  change  can  mend ! 

I  use  your  language :  mine — no  word 

Of  its  wealth  would  help  who  spoke,  who  heard, 

To  a  gleam  of  intelligence.    None  preferred, 

None  felt  distaste  when  better  and  worse 
Were  uncontrastable :  bless  or  curse 
What — in  that  uniform  universe? 

Can  your  world's  phrase,  your  sense  of  things 
Forth-figure  the  Star  of  my  God?    No  springs, 
No  winters  throughout  its  space.    Time  brings 

No  hope,  no  fear :  as  to-day,  shall  be 
To-morrow :  advance  or  retreat  need  we 
At  our  stand-still  through  eternity? 

All  happy :  needs  must  we  so  have  been, 
Since  who  could  be  otherwise?    All  serene : 
What  dark  was  to  banish,  what  light  to  screen  ? 

Earth's  rose  is  a  bud  that's  checked  or  grows 
As  beams  may  encourage  or  blasts  oppose : 
Our  lives  leapt  forth,  each  a  full-orbed  rose — 

Each  rose  sole  rose  in  a  sphere  that  spread 
Above  and  below  and  around — rose-red : 
No  fellowship,  each  for  itself  instead. 

One  better  than  I — would  prove  I  lacked 
Somewhat:  one  worse  were  a  jarring  fact 
Disturbing  my  faultlessly  exact. 

How  did  it  come  to  pass  there  lurked 
Somehow  a  seed  of  change  that  worked 
Obscure  in  my  heart  till  perfection  irked?— ■ 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  367 

Till  out  of  its  peace  at  length  grew  strife- 
Hopes,  fears,  loves,  hates, — obscurely  rife, — 
My  life  grown  a-tremble  to  turn  your  life? 

Was  it  Thou,  above  all  lights  that  are, 
Prime  Potency,  did  Thy  hand  unbar 
The  prison-gate  of  Rephan  my  Star? 

In  me  did  such  potency  wake  a  pulse 
Could  trouble  tranquillity  that  lulls 
Not  lashes  inertion  till  throes  convulse 

Soul's  quietude  into  discontent? 

As  when  the  completed  rose  bursts,  rent 

By  ardors  till  forth  from  its  orb  are  sent 

New  petals  that  mar — unmake  the  disc — 
Spoil  rondure :  what  in  it  ran  brave  risk, 
Changed  apathy's  calm  to  strife,  bright,  brisk, 

Pushed  simple  to  compound,  sprang  and  spread 
Till,  fresh-formed,  facetted,  floretted, 
The  flower  that  slept  woke  a  star  instead? 

No  mimic  of  Star  Rephan !    How  long 
I  stagnated  there  where  weak  and  strong, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  right  and  wrong, 

Are  merged  alike  in  a  neutral  Best, 

Can  I  tell?    No  more  than  at  whose  behest 

The  passion  arose  in  my  passive  breast, 

And  I  yearned  for  no  sameness  but  difference 
In  thing  and  thing,  that  should  shock  my  sense 
With  a  want  of  worth  in  them  all,  and  thence 

Startle  me  up,  by  an  Infinite 
Discovered  above  and  below  me — height 
And  depth  alike  to  attract  my  flight, 


368  BROWNING 

Repel  my  descent :  by  hate  taught  love. 
Oh,  gain  were  indeed  to  see  above 
Supremacy  ever — to  move,  remove, 

Not  reach — aspire  yet  never  attain 

To  the  object  aimed  at !    Scarce  in  vain,-^ 

As  each  stage  I  left  nor  touched  again. 

To  suffer,  did  pangs  bring  the  loved  one  bliss, 
Wring  knowledge  from  ignorance, — just  for  this— •> 
To  add  one  drop  to  a  love-abyss ! 

Enough :  for  you  doubt,  you  hope,  O  men, 
You  fear,  you  agonize,  die :  what  then  ? 
Is  an  end  to  your  life's  work  out  of  ken? 

Have  you  no  assurance  that,  earth  at  end, 
Wrong  will  prove  right?    Who  made  shall  mend 
In  the  higher  sphere  to  which  yearnings  tend? 

Why  should  I  speak?    You  divine  the  test. 
When  the  trouble  grew  in  my  pregnant  breast 
A  voice  said  "So  wouldst  thou  strive,  not  rest? 

"Burn  and  not  smoulder,  win  by  worth, 
Not  rest  content  with  a  wealth  that's  dearth  ? 
Thou  art  past  Rephan,  thy  place  be  Earth !" 

Browning  was  an  optimist  with  his  last  breath. 
In  the  Prologue  to  Asolando,  a  conventional  person 
is  supposed  to  be  addressing  the  poet :  he  says,  "Of 
course  your  old  age  must  be  sad,  because  you  have 
now  lost  all  your  youthful  illusions.  Once  you 
looked  on  the  earth  with  rose-colored  spectacles, 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  369 

but  now  you  see  the  naked  and  commonplace  reality 
of  the  things  you  used  to  think  so  radiant." 

Browning's  answer  is  significant,  and  the  figure 
he  uses  wonderfully  apt.  Suppose  you  are  going  to 
travel  in  Europe :  you  go  to  the  optician,  and  you  ask 
for  a  first-rate  magnifying-glass,  that  you  may  scan 
the  ocean,  and  view  the  remote  corners  of  cathe- 
drals. Now  imagine  him  saying  that  he  has  for  you 
something  far  better  than  that:  he  has  a  lovely 
kaleidoscope :  apply  your  eye  to  the  orifice,  turn  a  lit- 
tle wheel,  and  you  will  behold  all  sorts  of  pretty  col- 
ored rosettes.  You  would  be  naturally  indignant. 
"Do  you  take  me  for  a  child  to  be  amused  with  a  rat- 
tle ?  I  don't  want  pretty  colors :  I  want  something 
that  will  bring  the  object,  exactly  as  it  is,  as  near  to 
my  eyes  as  it  can  possibly  be  brought." 

Indeed,  when  one  buys  a  glass  for  a  telescope, 
if  one  has  sufficient  cash,  one  buys  a  glass  made 
of  crown  and  flint  glass  placed  together,  which 
destroys  color,  which  produces  what  is  called 
an  achromatic  lens.  Now  just  as  we  judge  of  the 
value  of  a  glass  by  its  ability  to  bring  things  as  they 
are  within  the  range  of  our  vision,  so,  says  Brown- 
ing, old  age  is  much  better  than  youth.  In  age  our  old 
eyes  become  achromatic.  The  rosy  illusions  of  youth 
vanish,  thank  God  for  it!     The  colors  which  we 


370  BROWNING 

imagined  belonged  to  the  object  were  in  reality  in 
our  imperfect  eyes — as  we  grow  older  these  pretty 
colors  disappear  and  we  see  what?  We  see  life 
itself.  Life  is  a  greater  and  grander  thing  than  any 
fool's  illusion  about  it.  The  world  of  nature  and 
man  is  infinitely  more  interesting  and  wonderful  as 
it  is  than  in  any  mistaken  view  of  it.  Therefore  old 
age  is  better  than  youth. 

PROLOGUE 
1889 
"The  Poet's  age  is  sad:  for  why? 

In  youth,  the  natural  world  could  show 
No  common  object  but  his  eye 

At  once  involved  with  alien  glow — 
His  own  soul's  iris-bow. 

"And  now  a  flower  is  just  a  flower : 
Man,  bird,  beast  are  but  beast,  bird,  man — 

Simply  themselves,  uncinct  by  dower 
Of  dyes  which,  when  life's  day  began, 

Round  each  in  glory  ran." 

Friend,  did  you  need  an  optic  glass, 
Which  were  your  choice  ?    A  lens  to  drape 

In  ruby,  emerald,  chrysopras, 
Each  object — or  reveal  its  shape 

Clear  outlined,  past  escape, 

The  naked  very  thing? — so  clear 
That,  when  you  had  the  chance  to  gaze, 

You  found  its  inmost  self  appear 
Through  outer  seeming — truth  ablaze, 

Not  falsehood's  fancy-haze? 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  371 

How  many  a  year,  my  Asolo, 

Since — one  step  just  from  sea  to  land — 

I  found  you,  loved  yet  feared  you  so — • 
For  natural  objects  seemed  to  stand 

Palpably  fire-clothed  I    No — 

No  mastery  of  mine  o'er  these! 

Terror  with  beauty,  like  the  Bush 
Burning  but  unconsumed.    Bend  knees, 

Drop  eyes  to  earthward !    Language?    Tush! 
Silence  'tis  awe  decrees. 

And  now  ?    The  lambent  flame  is — where  ? 

Lost  from  the  naked  world :  earth,  sky, 
Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower, — Italia's  rare 

O'er-running  beauty  crowds  the  eye — 
But  flame?    The  Bush  is  bare. 

Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower — they  stand  distinct, 
Nature  to  know  and  name.    What  then  ? 

A  Voice  spoke  thence  which  straight  unlinked 
Fancy  from  fact :  see,  all's  in  ken : 

Has  once  my  eyelid  winked  ? 

No,  for  the  purged  ear  apprehends 
Earth's  import,  not  the  eye  late  dazed : 

The  Voice  said  "Call  my  works  thy  friends ! 
At  Nature  dost  thou  shrink  amazed  ? 

God  is  it  who  transcends." 

It  is  an  interesting  and  dramatic  parallel  in  lit- 
erary history  that  Tennyson  and  Browning  should 
each  have  published  the  last  poem  that  appeared  in 
his  life-time  in  the  same  month  of  the  same  year, 
and  that  each  farewell  to  the  world  should  be  so  ex- 


372  BROWNING 

actly  characteristic  of  the  poetic  genius  and  spiritual 
temperament  of  the  writer.  In  December,  1889, 
came  from  the  press  Demeter  and  Other  Poems, 
closing  with  Crossing  the  Bar — came  also  Asolando, 
closing  with  the  Epilogue.  Tennyson's  lyric  is  ex- 
quisite in  its  tints  of  sunset,  a  serene  close  to  a  long 
and  calmly  beautiful  day.  It  is  the  perfect  tone  of 
dignified  departure,  with  the  admonition  to  refrain 
from  weeping,  with  the  quiet  assurance  that  all  is 
well.  Browning's  Epilogue  is  full  of  excitement  and 
strenuous  rage:  there  is  no  hint  of  acquiescence;  it 
is  a  wild  charge  with  drum  and  trumpet  on  the  hid- 
den foe.  Firm  in  the  faith,  full  of  plans  for  the 
future,  he  looks  not  on  the  darkening  night,  but  on 
to-morrow's  sunrise. 

He  tells  us  not  to  pity  him.  He  is  angry  at  the 
thought  that  people  on  the  streets  of  London,  when 
they  hear  of  his  death  will  say,  "Poor  Browning! 
He's  gone !  How  he  loved  life !"  Rather  he  wishes 
that  just  as  in  this  life  when  a  friend  met  him  in  the 
city  with  a  face  lighted  up  by  the  pleasure  of  the 
sudden  encounter,  with  a  shout  of  hearty  welcome — ■ 
so  now,  when  your  thoughts  perhaps  turn  to  me,  let 
it  not  he  with  sorrow  or  pity,  but  with  eager  recogni- 
tion. I  shall  be  striving  there  as  I  strove  here :  greet 
me  with  a  cheer ! 


BROWNING'S    OPTIMISM  373 

EPILOGUE 

1889 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned— 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
—Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  1 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,   though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 

triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  1 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive  1"  cry  "Speed,— fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here !" 


THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abt  Vogler,  125,  303,  351-357. 

Addison,  J.,  disgust  for  the  Alps,  266. 

Andrea  del  Sarto,  206-216. 

Another  Way  of  Love,  99. 

Apparent  Failure,  360-363. 

Artemis  Prologizes,  101. 

Asolando,  Prologue  and  Epilogue,  368-373. 

Asolo:    Browning's  visits  to,  its  place  in  his  work,  8;  last 

summer  passed  there,  26. 
Austin,  Alfred,  compared  with  F.  Thompson,  69. 

Bad  Dreams,  166,  168. 

Bells  and  Pomegranates,  meaning  of  title,  101. 

Bishop  Blougram's  Apologv,  46,  274. 

Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb, 'The,  193-199. 

Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  A,  7,  25,  83   169. 

Boy  and  the  Angel,  The,  99. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett:  engagement,  8-10;  her  sonnets, 
12 ;  described  by  her  son,  23 ;  her  ill  health,  24 ;  invented 
name  "Dramatic  Lyric,"  58;  her  assistance  in  R.  Brown- 
ing's poems,  97. 

Browning,  Robert:  parentage  and  early  life,  1-4;  education, 
4-6 ;  visit  to  Russia,  6 ;  play-writing,  7 ;  first  visit  to 
Italy,  7 ;  marriage,  8-12 ;  travels  in  Italy  and  lives  at 
Paris,  22;  domestic  life  in  Florence  described  by  Haw- 
thorne, 23;  death,  27;  personal  habits,  28;  peculiarities, 
29;  piano-playing,  29,  30;  enthusiasm,  30;  friendship 
with  Tennyson,  31 ;  normality  in  appearance,  32 ;  excel- 
lence in  character,  32,  33;  his  theory  of  poetry,  34,  ff; 
his  sonnets,  74,  75 ;  his  favorite  feature  the  brow,  141, 
142;  fondness  for  yellow  hair,  142;  his  "rejected  lovers," 
143,  ff. 

Browning,  Robert  Barrett :  death  at  Asolo,  8 ;  my  conversation 
with,  23. 

Bryant,  W.  C,  visits  Browning,  23. 

Byron,  Lord,  lyrical  power,  71. 

By  the  Fireside,  141. 

Caliban  on  Setebos,  326-339. 

Campion,  T.,  his  lyrical  power  compared  with  Donne's,  72. 

377 


378  INDEX 

Carlyle,  T. :  travels  to   Paris  with  the   Brownings,   22;   his 

smoking,  28. 
Cavalier  Tunes,  110-114. 
Charles  Avison,  351. 
"Childe  Roland,"  22,  231-244,  302. 
Choate,  J.  H.,  his  remark  on  old  age,  340. 
Christmas-Eve,  25,  44,  52,  97,  98,  298. 
Cleon,  148,  216,  220-222. 
Clive,  287-289. 
Confessions,  163-165. 
Count  Gismond,  100,  120,  142,  177-183. 
Cristina,  115-127. 

Death  in  the  Desert,  A,  US,  163,  298,  326. 

De  Gustibus,267,  268. 

Dis  A  liter  Visum,  120. 

Donne,   J.:     compared   with   Browning,   69;    compared    with 

Campion,  72. 
Dramatic  Lyric,  origin  of  name,  58. 
Dramatic  Lyrics,  37,  98,  99,  100,  101. 
Dramatic  Romances,  97,  98,  100,  101. 
Dramatis  Persona,  23,  25,  97. 

Eliot,  George,  Daniel  Deronda  and  My  Last  Duchess,  172. 

Emerson,  R.  W. :  pie  and  optimism,  28 ;  his  opinion  of  Tenny- 
son's Ulysses,  99,  100. 

Epistle,  An,  Containing  Strange  Medical  Experience  of  Kar- 
shish,  216-219,  222-231. 

Eurydice,  142. 

Evelyn  Hope,  47,  120,  124,  130-132,  141,  142. 

"Eyes  Calm  Beside  Thee,"  75. 

Face,  A,  87. 

Fano :    seldom  visited,   322;   scene  of   picture   of   Guardian 

Angel,  322. 
Fifine  at  the  Fair:  29;  Epilogue  to,  88-90. 
Forster,  J.,  his  praise  of  Paracelsus,  7. 
Fro  Lippo  Lippi,  22,  203-206. 
Fulda,  L.,  his  play  S chlaraff enland  compared  with  Rephant 

363. 

Garden  Fancies,  Sibrandus  Schafnaburgensis,  255,  259-261. 

Glove,  The,  47,  246-?55,  357. 

Goethe,  doctrine  of  elective  affinities,  116-118. 

Gold  Hair,  142,  298. 

Grammarian's  Funeral,  A,  256-259,  262-266. 

Gray,  T.,  early  appreciation  of  mountain  scenery,  267. 

Guardian  Angel,  The,  322-326. 


/ 

INDEX  379 

Hallam,  A.  H.,  home  in  Wimpole  Street,  10. 

Hawthorne,  N.,  visits  Browning  in  Florence,  23. 

Holy  Cross  Day,  46. 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad,  83-86,  100. 

Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea,  83-86. 

How  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary,  50,  54. 

"How  They  Brought  the  Good  News,"  101,  139,  189-193. 

Ibsen,  H. :  an  original  genius,  36,  37 ;  When  We  Dead  Awaken, 

148;  v4  Doll's  House,  292. 
In  a  Balcony,  169. 

In  a  Gondola,  100,  120,  142,  154-156. 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  100,  139. 
Ivan  Ivdnovitch,  7,  286,  287. 

James  Lee's  Wife,  67,  86. 

Jocoseria,  Prologue  to,  94. 

Johannes  Agricola  in  Meditation,  103,  107-110. 

Jonson,  B.,  his  remarks  on  Donne,  69. 

Karshish  (see  Epistle ,  An) . 

Keats,  J. :  prosody  in  Endymion,  41,  171 ;  Bright  Star,  71 ;  his 

conception  of  beauty,  167;  preface  to  Endymion,  295; 

his  doctrine  of  beauty,  324. 
Kipling,  R.,  allusions  to  Browning  in  Stalky  and  Co.,  195. 

Laboratory,  The,  199-203. 

Landor,  W.  S.,  his  poetic  tribute  to  Browning,  68. 

Lanier,  S.,  his  criticism  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  37. 

La  Saisiaz,  Prologue  to,  93. 

Last  Ride  Together,  The,  46,  141,  146-154. 

LeMoyne,  Sarah  Cowell,  her  reading  aloud  Meeting  at  Night, 

133,  134. 
Lessing,  G.  E.,  his  remark  about  truth,  148. 
Longfellow,  H.  W. :   a  better  sonneteer  than  either  Tennyson 

or  Browning,  74;  Paul  Revere' s  Ride  compared  with 

"How  They  Brought,"  etc.,  189. 
Lost  Leader,  The,  100,  110,  114,  144. 
Lost  Mistress,  The,  144,  149. 
Love  Among  the  Ruins,  42,  46,  142,  156-161. 
Lover's  Quarrel,  A,  99. 
Luria,  70,  97. 

Macbeth:    German  translation  of,  47;  pessimistic  speech  by, 
102,  103. 

>ady,  W.  C.,  relations  with  Browning,  7. 
rlinck,  M. :    scene  in  Monna  Vanna  taken  from  Luria, 
70;  his  praise  of  Browning's  poetry,  70. 


380  INDEX 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha,  351. 

Meeting  at  Night,  59,  132-140. 

Men  and  Women,  22,  25,  96,  97,  98,  99. 

Mesmerism,  99. 

Mill,  J.  S.,  his  opinion  of  Pauline,  73. 

Muleykeh,  289,  290. 

My  Last  Duchess,  101,  170-177,  186. 

My  Star,  165,  167. 

Nationality  in  Drinks,  98. 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  320-322. 

Omar    Khayyam,    his    figure   of    the    Potter    compared   with 

Browning's,  342. 
One  Way  of  Love,  144,  145,  149. 
One  Word  More,  13,  14,  15-21. 

Pacchiarotto:  61;  Epilogue  to,  63,  70;  Prologue  to,  92. 

Paracelsus,  7,  25,  76-79,  123,  128-130. 

Parting  at  Morning  (see  Meeting  at  Night). 

Pauline,  6,  24,  25,  37,  42,  47,  73,  84,  294,  296. 

Pippa  Passes,  8,  25,  61,  67,  80-83,  102,  135. 

Pope:  popularity  of  Essay  on  Man,  34;  his  prosody  compared 

with  that  of  Keats,"  171. 
Porphyria 's  Lover,  103-107. 
Prince  H ohenstiel-S 'chwangau,  96. 
Prospice,  357-360. 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  62,  122,  326,  339-351. 

Rephan,  363-368. 

Respectability,  161-163. 

Reverie,  297. 

Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  25,  37,  45,  59,  60,  62,  97,  116,  364. 

Rossetti,  D.  G. :  draws  picture  of  Tennyson,  22 ;  his  opinion  of 

Pauline,  73,  74. 
Rossetti,  W.  M.,  meets  the  Brownings  and  the  Tennysons,  22. 
Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli,  101. 
Ruskin,  J.,  his  remark  on  The  Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb,  193, 

194. 

Saul,  98,  298-320. 

Schiller,  F. :  his  poem  Der  Handschuh,  246;  his  poem  Das 
Ideal  und  das  Leben,  341. 

Schopenhauer,  A. :  father's  financial  help  similar  to^  Brown- 
ing's, 3 ;  his  late-coming  fame  similar  to  Browning's,  24 ; 
his  remark  on  Rafael's  St.  Cecilia,  208. 

Schumann,  R.  and  Mrs.,  presentation  to  the  Scandinavian 
king,  26. 


INDEX  381 

Shakespeare,  W.,  Browning  declares  him  to  be  the  supreme 

poet,  44. 
Sharp,  W.,  characterization  of  Sordello,  66. 
Shelley,  P.  B. :    his  vegetarianism  imitated  by  Browning,  27; 

his  lyrical  power,  71. 
Sibrandus  Schafnaburgensis  (see  Garden  Fancies). 
Sludge  (Mr.)  the  Medium,  46,  133. 
Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister,  183-189. 
Soul's  Tragedy,  A,  97,  98. 
Sordello,  8,  66,  67. 

Statue  and  the  Bust,  The,  120,  141,  142,  272-285. 
Stedman    (mother  of  the  poet,  E.  C),  her  remarks  on  the 

health  of  Mrs.  Browning  in  Florence,  24. 
Summum  Bonum,  166,  168. 

Tennyson,  A. :  reading  aloud  from  Maud,  22 ;  Browning's  letter 
to  him,  31;  a  genius  for  adaptation,  36;  wrote  to  please 
critics,  39 ;  compared  with  Browning,  65 ;  his  lyrical 
power,  71;  his  lyrics  compared  with  Browning's  72; 
wrote  no  good  sonnets,  74;  Lotos-Eaters,  76;  Ulysses, 
99 ;  Crossing  the  Bar,  102 ;  St.  Agnes'  Eve  compared 
with  Johannes  Agricola,  110;  Locksley  Hall,  119;  his 
"rejected  lovers"  compared  with  Browning's,  143;  his 
criticism  of  The  Laboratory,  200;  Crossing  the  Bar 
compared  with  Epilogue  to  Asolando,  372. 

Thackeray,  Vanity  Fair,  302. 

Thompson,  F.,  his  poetry  compared  with  Austin's,  69. 

Time's  Revenges,  143. 

Toccata  of  Galuppi's,  A,  142,  351. 

Transcendentalism,  48,  52,  115. 

Twins,  The,  61,  62. 

Two  Poets  of  Croisic,  the  Epilogue  to,  91. 

Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City,  266-272. 

Wagner,  R. :  his  originality,  36,  37 ;  his  slow-coming  fame,  40 ; 

his  operas,  64. 
Which,  290-293. 
Wister,  O.,  criticism  of  Browning's  poetry  in  his  novel  The 

Virginian,  135,  138,  139,  191. 
Wordsworth,  W. :  served  as  model  for  The  Lost  Leader,  110; 

his  sincere  love  of  the  country,  267. 

Youth  and  Art,  120. 


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